In Another Land
by Simon920
Summary: What might have happened if Dick hadn't been adopted by Bruce after the Graysons died. AU. The epilogue, is up.
1. Default Chapter

Title: In Another Land and Time Part One

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: What if Dick wasn't adopted by Bruce?

Warnings: none, well, maybe some angst

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

**In Another Land and Time...**

**Part One**

The Flying Graysons had fallen to their deaths earlier in the evening and their son, an eight year old in deep shock, was removed to the temporary care of Foster Services. He had gone quietly, still stunned, with the caseworker who was called in by the police, numbly thanking her for the small things she did for him. She had taken some of his clothes, his favorite stuffed animal—obviously old and worn to the point of shabby and found him a cup of hot chocolate to sip, though he drank less than half an inch; seemingly just holding the paper cup for the warmth.

It was late when she was called, almost eleven in the evening and it had taken her almost an hour to get to the site where the accident occurred. The old fair grounds were all the way across town and the traffic was bad because of construction. When she arrived, pushing her way under the police tape, the boy was sitting almost alone in the first row of now empty seats, largely ignored by the emergency personnel milling around. One man, still in clown make up, was beside him, his arm around the thin child, offering soft words and what comfort he could. The boy seemed not to hear, his eyes fixed on the blood still staining the flooring of the center ring, still wearing a costume made up of bright colors and sequins.

Linda spoke to the Lieutenant in charge then walked over to the child who seemed not to register she was there. She spoke to the man beside him. "My name is Linda Hazlet, I'm from Child Services and I was called in to help tonight. Is this Richard?"

"Dick. Everyone calls him Dick."

She looked at the boy. He was pale, shaking. His eyes were glassy and he leaned against the man for support. He was holding something in his hands, clutching something, though Linda couldn't make out what it was.

"Dick? My name is Linda, do you mind if I talk with you?" No response. "Dick?" Nothing. "Dick, can you hear me?"

"Dick, could you answer the lady?" Nothing. "Dick, you know your manners. The lady would like to talk with you now."

His reaction was to turn his face into the man's chest, put his small arms around him and start crying in that hard almost silent way when it's hurts too much for crying to help, but it's all you can do.

The clown held him in return, gently rubbing his tense and shaking back, enveloping the child in his larger arms, providing warmth, protection and a place to hide, at least for now.

Linda, after saying that she'd be right back, went to find someone in charge. Commissioner Gordon, no less, was talking with Bruce Wayne, rich and vapid society barfly extraordinaire. Seemingly recognizing her, Gordon called her over.

"Have you made arrangements for the child yet?"

"No sir, not yet. I was just about to see if there are any relatives here who would be able to take him in, at least temporarily and after that I'll see what I can do..."

Wayne spoke up, after giving her a blatant once over, the jerk. "The ringmaster? I think he's the owner of the circus anyway, he told me that the boy has no one with the circus other than his parents and that the rest of the family is out of state." He stopped for a moment, looking confused. "Or did he say that the boy has no other relatives? You'll have to forgive me, Miss Hazlet, I'm afraid that details just seem to slip past me." He gave her what was probably supposed to be a charming smile. Jerk.

"I was just asking Bruce here if he might be able to help us out with the child..."

"You know I would if I could, Jim, but I really just don't have the resources to care for a young child, especially one like this who'll be needing all sorts of attention and—whatever else he might need."

"Bruce, just for a few nights, a week at most. You'll be able to place him in a week, won't you, Miss Hazlet? Let the boy go home with Bruce tonight and you'll get right on this, have it all squared away in a few days, right?"

"Jim, Alfred will have my head if I spring this on him and you know how he can be—besides..."

"Bruce, just for a few days and he'll be gone. I promise. You won't even know he's there. And it's late, if you don't take him, I'll probably have to just send him over to Juvie for the night and none of us wants that to happen. The worst possible thing for him right now would be to have him end up locked in a jail cell for the night. Come on, Bruce—I hate to bring it up, but you've been there. You know what the kid's going through."

Wayne looked at Linda, seemingly hoping for a break here, some help. "That can't be good for him, just being dumped with total strangers after what he's just been through? Shouldn't he stay with the circus? It's like a moving town, isn't it? That's what I've always heard, anyway. At least he knows these people and I'm a total stranger..."

"The circus is moving to Metropolis tomorrow, the boy can't go across state lines because he's a material witness."

"Jim, you just told me that this was an accident—that wouldn't make him a witness to anything besides an unfortunate..."

"Well, we're not one hundred percent convinced it was an accident, alright? C'mon, Bruce, help us out here. It's almost midnight, what else are we going to do with him at this time of night?"

Linda sensed that he was caving in and it would make her job a whole lot easier if Wayne would help them out here, give them all some breathing room. "I'll come by tomorrow to make sure he's alright and he'll be my top priority—getting him settled in a decent permanent home. I promise, I'll start on this first thing in the morning—we'll get him placed before you know it."

This was the last thing Wayne wanted and Alfred would go ballistic in his proper, controlled way, but he did owe Jim Gordon a favor from last year when he'd caught that theft ring that had targeted his antique cars and, oh hell, he'd be at work all day. Alfred would deal with it. He'd give him a bonus. This way he could still go out at night and, with any luck, catch the protection racketeers that had targeted Haley.

It wasn't hard to figure that one out; they'd been doing this sort of thing for six months now. Batman would get them, he already had a couple of good leads, knew who the boss of the thing was—some thug named Zucco— and it was just a matter of not much more time before he had them nailed.

"One week."

They got Dick into Wayne's Bentley without incident—once they managed to get him to release Billy the Clown. He was been checked by the paramedics who worked futilely on his parents and they said that he was physically fine, but in obvious shock. They suggested that he be seen by a pediatrician and prescribed sleeping pills and antidepressants along with tranquillizers in case they became necessary over the next few days and Bruce stopped at the Wayne Clinic so that Dr. Thompkins could make sure that what they'd told him all made sense. She agreed and wrote the 'scripts, handing Bruce a couple of free samples to get them through the night.

He called ahead and Alfred met them at the front door, offering more hot chocolate and a warm bath, neither of which the child wanted.

He allowed himself to be put into a large bed and nodded when asked if he wanted the light on and the door left opened. He took the child dosage sleeping pill and settled in.

Since the moment his parents died, he hadn't said a single word.

As soon as he was assured that the boy was down for the night, Bruce headed down to the cave, spending an hour on the computer and then going out. He found a hireling who was willing to talk about Zucco in exchange for protection and was back at the manor in time to shower and change for the office.

Zucco—a piece of scum in a hand tailored suit and impeccable hair. He was the current head of the most powerful crime family working in the tri-state area, controlling most of the drug traffics as well as the prostitution rings. His new specialty though, was protection—a targeted business would provide kickbacks and payoffs in exchange for things like the Grayson's murders not happening and it was simple luck that the child hadn't been on the ropes when they'd broken. A little thing like an eight year old being murdered along side his parents wouldn't faze the man or cause him to lose a minute's sleep.

"You're leaving me alone with that child? Surely you're not serious, Master Bruce."

"You'll be fine. Besides, that social worker said she'd be here by ten to talk to him; how hard can it be?"

Obviously Bruce had blocked out the immediate days after his own parents deaths.

Around seven the next evening Bruce returned from the office. He found Dick sitting solemnly in front of the TV, with a movie playing—Little Shop of Horrors, of all things. He looked into the room from the door without actually crossing the threshold and was about to say something when the look on the boy's face stopped him—still, withdrawn and not even close to caring what was happening on the screen. He looked like one of those kids you see on the news, the ones in some war zone whose house was just blown up or whose parents were just shot in front of them—the sight playing over and over in their minds on some mental loop. At a loss as to where to begin and thinking the kid hadn't even registered that he was standing looking at him, Bruce continued into the kitchen where Alfred was making hamburgers.

"I thought that the boy might eat these, sir. I didn't think that you'd mind."

"Of course not, no. How is he doing?"

"The social worker was here earlier for several hours, but he still refuses to speak—shock, apparently. Ms. Hazlet informed me that she may have a family who will be willing to give the boy a permanent home and would like to start the paperwork immediately."

"That's quick."

"Evidently the tragedy was featured prominently on the local news and generated quite a bit of interest. There's a family just nearby who made inquiries about their meeting the child." Alfred turned the burgers.

"Yes, well, it's important that the boy be settled in a stable home as soon as possible."

"Yes." There didn't seem to be anything else to say about it. Bruce had less than no interest in having a small child underfoot—anymore than Alfred did. This was very much for the better for everyone concerned.

After a silent dinner with Dick barely touching his food and saying nothing. Bruce asked if he would like to take a swim before bed. Dick looked at him with a questioning glance. "There's an indoor pool." That at least got the child to look up at him. "C'mon, it'll be fun."

Getting up, he led the way through the various twisting corridors and hallways into the solarium, the pool taking up the fifty by thirty foot space in the middle of the large, plant filled room. "There are bathing suits in there"—he indicated a door—"Go get changed and I'll meet you out here in a minute."

By the time Bruce finished changing he heard the splash coming from the water. He walked out in time to see Dick on the end of the one-meter diving board, running, making the jump and launching himself onto the air. Turning a double, he knifed into the water as well as Bruce had ever seen the dive done—and he was only eight years old. Impressive.

"Could you show me how to do that?"

Dick was back up on the board, no longer looking shy. He shrugged, still not talking, then made his approach to the end and this time threw a layout with a twist. Actually, it made sense that he could dive; working in the water and on a trampoline were common training methods for gymnasts and aerialists. He'd probably been doing this sort of thing for years.

Bruce got up and took his turn, performing a reasonable single tuck. Dick followed with another double. Bruce did a back dive; Dick did a back one and a half. Everything Bruce did, Dick one-upped him, back and forth, Dick still saying nothing.

Finally he pulled a couple of kick boards into the water from the edge of the pool, pushed one over to Dick and the two of them rested on them, kicking randomly back and forth in the water.

"You like to swim, Dick?" No answer, just that haunted look. It was likely his parents had taught him how and used it as part of his training. "You're a very good diver, have you ever wanted to compete?" The slightest shake of his head, no. "I never competed in any sports, myself. I just liked to do them for myself..."

Without warning Dick pulled himself out of the water and ran out the solarium door, disappearing before Bruce could catch up. He heard the slam of the guestroom door and looked hopelessly at Alfred as the older man hurried past to comfort the now crying child.

The scene was repeated every night after dinner after that, though the first night was the only one that ended in uncontrolled tears. Bruce would make a point of leaving the office in time to eat with Dick. The first two nights he tried to engage Dick in conversation with no results, finally gave up and simply provided a running commentary on whatever came into his mind. He would talk about the weather, the day's meetings, current events, and the food. Dick would listen politely and occasionally smile, but remained mute. Afterwards they would go to the pool and Dick would give Bruce a demonstration of his diving and tumbling abilities in the water, then they would float while Bruce continued his monologue. After that they would retire to the study to watch a movie of Dick's choosing, eating popcorn together but never touching in any way. They would share a couch, but opposite ends or Dick would choose a single easy chair for the evening.

When the film ended he would be taken up to the guest room by Alfred, Bruce would go down to the cave and Batman would continue his search for Zucco—he was getting closer by the day.

Sometimes something unintended—a picture, a word or gesture, would upset Dick or trigger a memory and then the day would end with Dick running off upset, with Alfred trying—and sometimes succeeding—to repair the new damage.

On Wednesday Linda called Bruce at his office to tell him that she had made a number of inquiries and calls but there were no blood relatives who either were able or willing to give Dick a permanent home so she was proceeding with the family who wanted to take the boy in—or at least to meet him. They were friends of hers—wonderful people who had been looking for the right child for a couple of years and she was sure that Dick was exactly right. They would be a good match, she was positive of it. Bruce had been so incredibly generous to open his home to the poor thing, but she knew what an inconvenience it had been and the child should be gone in a few days if it all worked out the way she hoped it would, just like she had promised.

She came the next morning, as she had everyday since the deaths to talk with Dick, and said she would like to take him to meet the people who wanted to be his new family. They were nice people who had wanted their own little boy for along time and were excited they might have Dick come live with them. He would like them, they were kind and funny and knew that Dick had parents whom he'd loved very much so they knew not to try to replace what was irreplaceable. They would like to do the best for him they could though, and they wanted him very much. He could meet them after lunch, if he was willing, and if they all got along, then she would make the arrangements for him to go with them.

He nodded, seemingly believing that he had no real choice in the matter and bowing to whatever wind was blowing through his life now.

Andy and Bonnie Porter were a thirty-something couple who lived in the next town over from Bruce and the Manor. He was a construction foreman with hopes of starting his own contracting business, she was a high school English teacher and they were one of those legions of couples that, for whatever reason, seemed unable to conceive. They were on the lists to adopt an infant, but the wait was long and they now were willing to consider an older child. They were a solid couple, happily married and owned their own smallish home on a quiet street. They were perfect prospects to take in Dick and give him a decent life. They were even Catholic, like Dick's mother had been.

Linda and Dick drove from the Manor to Linda's office where the Porter's were waiting for them. They had been warned that he hadn't spoken since the accident, still deeply traumatized and that they should be prepared for him to be resistant to any initial overtures which they might make. They were kind, gentle people and it was obvious that they were taken with the sad child in front of them at first sight. Dick was immediately appealing—striking looks, all dark hair and those clear blue eyes combined with his melancholy to draw people in easily. He also seemed to warm to them and when, after an hour of sitting in the office, he handed Bonnie Porter a couple of M&M's from a small bag he'd been given, it was clear they'd been accepted.

When Linda asked if Dick would like to go home with them, he nodded and quietly said, "Yes." It was the first word he'd said since being orphaned and was taken as a major breakthrough.

The move to the Porter's was accomplished quickly since Dick had very little to pack. Alfred had purchased him some basic items to augment the few things he'd come with, but it was still pretty meager and easily fit into a single small duffle.

The paperwork was expedited as the case was high profile and had the interest of the media and the police who had felt badly for the small boy. Jim Gordon greased what wheels he could and the papers, at least the preliminary ones, were delivered in a couple of days. In the meantime, Dick had been allowed to go home with the Porters, knowing that Linda Hazlet would be making unannounced visits to make sure that everything was going well. He also had her phone number in case he wanted to talk to her about anything. He had been allowed to say goodbye to Bruce and Alfred and he thanked them both, the first time for either of them to hear his voice. He then shyly asked Bruce if he could come back and use the pool sometimes and Bruce told him that all he had to do was call to make sure someone was home and that seemed to reassure him on some level.

He never did call, though.

Dick was found a good child psychologist and grief counselor whom he would see twice a week for almost two years and who helped him make the adjustment better than anyone thought possible.

At the Manor, Bruce was relieved that Dick was placed and he was sure Alfred felt the same. The boy was too troubled, too needy for them to deal with and he would be better off in a more traditional home where he'd find the stability he needed. If the Manor seemed a little empty, then so too did it seem like his own sanctuary again with no intruders around and no annoyances like balls in the hallway or muddy footprints on the floors. The Porters were good people, Bruce had checked, and Dick would be happy there.

There was no question that this was the best resolution they all could have hoped for.

TBC

9/27/04

15


	2. In Another Land Part 2

Title: In Another Land Part Two

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

**In Another Land **

Part Two 

Dick's tenth birthday was the next day and his parents, his new parents, the ones who adopted him, were going to allow him a sleep out in the back yard with tents and a camp fire. Being March it was still cold at night and the seven friends who were coming had been told to bring warm sleeping bags and sweats to sleep in—the kids would be fine. They wouldn't get much sleep and they'd eat too much junk food, but they'd have fun and that was all Bonnie and Andy wanted.

Dick was making friends now, both in the neighborhood and in school. He seemed to be happy most of the time, and they were settling into a rhythm and routine about their changed lives.

The last eighteen months had passed surprisingly quickly and not always easily. Dick had problems adjusting, both to his parents' deaths and to his new situation. He was seeing a child psychologist who was also a qualified grief counselor twice a week and more often if needed.

The worst time had been when the crime boss, Anthony Zucco, was brought to trial and found guilty for his parents' murder in a racketeering shakedown. A few of his underlings went down with him and the publicity had been a nightmare of reporters and cameras. The local media had closely covered the story and Dick couldn't avoid the stories both in the paper, which his teacher would have on her desk in the morning, and on the evening TV news over dinner. The Porter's tried to shield him, turning off the evening news and hiding the paper at home, but it wasn't really possible to completely block it out. In addition, Dick had given his own testimony on videotape and even though the lawyers had been as gentle as they could, it still led to a week of nightmares, which would leave him trembling, and in speechless tears for hours.

Even aside from the trial, there had been countless sleepless nights and occasional crying jags that would usually be triggered by some seemingly minor thing and which could last up to several days. One of the worst had been the placard in a local store window for the annual town carnival. The design was close enough to the old Haley circus show cards that Dick had stood frozen and staring until Andy gently led him back to the car.

He retreated up to his room and Bonnie held him for most of the afternoon while he cried and told her stories about his parents. That episode lasted three days straight. He'd missed school and the psychologist had come to the house to talk to Dick, administering tranquilizers so the boy would be able to rest.

Another episode was caused by Andy's dial twisting one Saturday afternoon past some gymnastics meet on the TV. Dick stopped on his way past and proceeded to critique every competitor, insisting that his father was better than all of them. That day had ended with Dick kicking the wall until his foot finally went through it.

These tantrums were unusual, though.

Dick was usually an amazing, cheerful child and the Porter's were as happy to have him with them, as he was grateful to be there. And he was grateful. He wished with all his heart that he was still with Haley and that his own parents were still alive, but given that wasn't the world he still lived in—this was pretty good.

Bonnie and Andy were kind, good people who made it clear daily that they were thrilled he was with them and Dick, in turn, tried to live up to their inflated opinions of him. He tried to cause them as little grief as he could, studied in school, cleaned his room when it got bad, helped with the dishes and was an all around good kid.

Most of the time. He was still human.

There were times when he would be overcome by the depression which would overwhelm him and when he felt it starting, he would take himself away—out on his bike, a long walk, a long bath—anything so they wouldn't see and try to comfort him where there was no comfort to be had.

Dick told no one about these spells and learned to live with them.

Usually, though, he was cheerful and outgoing and his new parents were happily astounded by him being in their lives. He was affectionate by nature and would hug Bonnie and kiss her on the cheek every night before he went up to bed. He would help Andy in the garage without being asked and had taken over the lawn mowing and clearing the snow.

He was also, there was no denying, a remarkably handsome child. His coloring was striking with his thick, straight black hair and his startling clear blue eyes. Most people with blue eyes, unless they wore contacts, were really a shade of gray. Dick's eyes were naturally almost pure cornflower blue and would look directly at you, seeming to look straight through you. They caught your attention and held it.

Coupled with his unusual degree of self-possession, he was an outstanding child, and one who was often noticed by people. Even strangers in stores would remark on him, much to his embarrassment.

He was a good student as well; almost straight A's and his teachers were always sending home good reports about him. His IQ tested the highest in his grade, his mind capable and quick. He learned easily and willingly and loved reading without being a bookworm. He was exceptional.

School had been a big adjustment for him, though. Up until his coming to stay with the Porter's, he was home schooled by his mother and the classroom routine was difficult for him to get used to. It was hard for him to sit still that long and the gym period wasn't nearly long enough for him to get rid of the excess energy inside of him.

Knowing that something needed to be done, one day Bonnie saw a possible solution. The local 'Y' was offering classes in gymnastics and karate so, after talking to Dick when he got home from school, they went over and the boy was signed up.

The change was almost instantaneous.

Suddenly from spending the afternoons and weekends looking for something to do, he was focused almost to the point of his new parents being worried about him. He would spend every spare moment out in the backyard practicing tumbling passes or roundhouse kicks. Andy had even caved in and built him a high bar out back, using materials from the local Home Depot. Dick spent hours out there.

"Dick, honey, dinner's ready. Get washed up, please."

"In a minute."

"Now."

"Just one more, please?"

"After dinner, get inside now."

"But..."

"You can go back out when your homework is finished, you know the rules, now go wash those hands."

The coach at the 'Y', the one who taught gymnastics, pulled Andy aside one day after a class. "You know, Dick is really good. I mean he's really good."

"Well, he toured with his real parents in a circus act before we he came to live with us. Frankly, I'd be surprised if he wasn't."

"Jesus. He never told me that."

"They had a trapeze act, the parents were killed in a fall but before that, from what I've heard, they were pretty much it for what they did. I know Dick was part of the act starting when he was three or four. He told me that they used to tour eight or nine months a year, going from one company to another. Haley Circus, that was the one they worked for—anyway, they had two separate tours going all the time. They would tour with both of the companies. I guess that's unusual, but I heard they were popular enough that an exception was made for them."

"...Hellava kid. Y'know, I think he could be something, maybe be one of the top guys in the sport if you were willing to go the distance with him."

"He's that good—at gymnastics?"

"That ten year old is better right now than just about anyone I've seen and I was all-state in college. You let him go to his full potential, you may have yourself an Olympian on your hands. I mean—look at him, that was a triple he just threw there and now he's standing there laughing because it was so much fun."

Dick was that good? Oh, sure, Andy knew he was good, but that good? Really that good? No—jeez. And what would they do about it?

"That sort of thing is expensive, though, right? That kind of training at that level, I mean—don't kids have to move to the best coaches and travel and all of that?" Andy's sport was baseball. This gymnastics thing wasn't something he knew much about and he'd always sort of thought of it as sort of sissy—all those tights and leotards. Jeez, why couldn't Dick like something normal like football or hockey?

"It's not cheap. Look, you think about it, talk it over and I'll see what I can come up with. Maybe we can work something out."

Andy nodded. Jesus, this wasn't anything they'd figured on—Dick getting some kind of special training? Maybe having to move Christ knew where so he could spend all day in some gym with some probably Russian or Ukrainian guy yelling at him? After all that kid had been through, all the disruption and upheaval in his life? Up root him again so he could do back flips in California or Texas or someplace? He was just settled pretty much into his new family—he had friends in school and cousins to play with over the summer and at Christmas. He finally seemed to be mostly happy again.

And he and Bonnie had a son, after all those years of trying and the miscarriages and...send their kid off to the other side of the country after what they'd gone through to get him?

Screw that.

"Hey, Andy, did you see me? I stuck the triple, did you see it?"

He ruffled the thick black hair, "You were great, guy. I'm proud of you—you about ready to go home now?"

"See you Thursday, Steve."

"Count on it, Dick."

The ride in the car was a little awkward. At first Dick was going on about how he'd finally gotten his triple back and he wanted to have the quad back by the end of the month, but Andy was quiet and that wasn't like him.

"Hey, Andy—something wrong? You're not saying much and you sort of haven't said anything since after I saw you and Steve talking about me in the gym. Did I do something wrong?"

"No, nothing at all. Steve was just telling me how good you are, that's all. He was saying how you're the best in the class."

Dick knew what was up; he was a long way from stupid. "He told me that he thinks I can be one of the best in the country if I work at it. He thinks I should go somewhere to train with one of the top coaches. Is that what he was saying to you?"

"He mentioned it."

Andy glanced over at Dick; the expression on his face was close to panic. "Are you going to do that? Are you going to send me away? I mean, if that's what you want me to do, I will, but, I mean, are you going to send me away?" A pause. "Do you want me to go?" He took a breath. "Do you want me to leave—do you want me to...?"

Dick, normally the most outgoing and confident of children was terrified with the thought of losing another family. It was the stuff of his nightmares and he could be clingy when the bogeymen got to him.

"Dick, God, no. We're not going to send you anywhere, okay? You're ours and you live with Bonnie and me and that's not going to change, okay? You're our son now and we don't ever want you to leave." He glanced at the boy, his color heightened with his distress. "You got that?"

He looked dubious; maybe a little reassured and gave a half nod. "But—did you hear Steve? He thinks that I could maybe be good enough to really compete, like maybe I could even do the World's or something. God."

"Watch that kind of talk or Bonnie will bust you, kiddo, you know that."

"Yeah, but—jeez, I could maybe be like the World Champion or something. I mean—the best in the whole world."

They were turning down their block. "Would you like that? I mean, is that what you think you'd like to work for?"

Dick looked over at Andy. What was he asking him for? Jesus, he was a ten-year-old kid, what did he know? "Not if it means that I'd have to leave here and live with some strangers."

Thank God. "Okay. Well, look, why don't I see what I can come up with, alright? We'll talk about this when we've had some time to think about it some more. Maybe we can come up with something."

A nod. Sure, great, that would be fine and besides, medals were cool, but he really just wanted to stay right where he was. Now if there was a way he could train and live at home—but whatever. It didn't really matter. Not really. This was more important, he knew that. At least for him it was.

About the same time Dick was walking into his room to change out of his workout things, Steve picked up the phone and dialed the number he'd been given. "Mr. Pennyworth? This is Steve Model, over at the 'Y'."

"Yes, Mr. Model, what can I do for you, sir?"

"Do you remember you asked me to let you know if Dick needed anything? Well, I think I may know of something he could use, I mean if you have a minute."

"Of course, Mr. Wayne will be most grateful for any information you may have for him. He's quite interested in the young man's welfare."

"But Andy, I know all that, but how on Earth would we be able to afford something like this? He wouldn't even be eligible for any scholarships for a few years—that is even if he is good enough and avoids any serious injuries. I just don't see how we can manage it for him."

"I was thinking I could get another job, something part time, maybe weekends or something. That would help and ..."

"But Dick wants you here for him and I want you around, too. We hardly ever see each other as it is and if you get another job—we'll never see each other."

"But he's really good, Bon. I watched him today and he's really good. I couldn't believe the stuff he was doing and he was so damn happy—God, if you'd just seen him."

"We're barely making ends meet now."

"He has that trust fund from his parents, maybe we could use that."

"Andy, no. You know we agreed that was for his college. We can't touch that. No."

"But if you'd seen him..."

Three weeks later Dick was in the car with Andy when they noticed a new sign on an old warehouse down by the tracks. The place had stood empty for about five years and was for sale or lease, but no one had shown any interest, until now.

"_**Coming Soon!**_

_**Crest Hill Gymnastics Academy**_

_**Beginner's to Elite**_

_**Classes/private lessons**_

_**Call for information."**_

"God, Andy—did you see that? Did you? Can we call? I know it's probably not going to be any good, but maybe it will be—can we call? Please?"

"Dick, slow down. Yes, we can call. Let's see what they have to say before we jump in here, alright?"

"Oh, yeah, but we can call? You won't forget?"

"Like you'd let me?"

He made the call that afternoon and learned that Sergei Pavlov, a gold medallist from the former Soviet Union, was going to be running the place and would be giving lessons. He hoped to have the place ready to open for business in a month or so and would be happy to take a look at Andy's son for evaluation when the equipment was installed in a couple of weeks. And, yes, there would be a few scholarships available if the boy showed enough potential.

Three weeks later Dick went through a couple of routines and an impromptu lesson with his new coach who was impressed enough to offer the boy lessons at half his normal rate.

"He started at three—is good. Most Americans don't start until they are eight or nine—too late. This one I can make something out of. Three times a week to start and then we see."

Wayne never said anything, his name didn't appear anywhere on the building. As far as anyone knew, he never set foot in the place, but if a piece of equipment needed to be bought or replaced, it was done. He never asked for a progress report and he never made any demands or even suggestions.

He stayed away.

The gym was in Sergei's name and he made monthly payments to Bruce Wayne, plus interest for five years until the building was paid off.

Neither Dick nor his parents would find out for several years that his training had been arranged by and his scholarship paid for by Bruce Wayne.

TBC

10/2/04

14


	3. In Another Land Part 3

Title: In Another Land Part Three

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim.

**In Another Land **

Part Three 

By the time Dick was twelve, he was nationally ranked as a junior gymnast.

None of his friends knew. Oh, they knew that he worked out and took lessons and all of that since he couldn't ever do anything with them after school, but he'd never told them about the medals or the cups or the trophies. It would seem like bragging and he didn't do that, so no one knew. He didn't even keep them in his room and at his insistence they were not displayed prominently anywhere. The few that were out were stashed behind Andy's softball trophies.

Bonnie was promoted to head of the English department at the private high school where she'd been working for ten years and the added money was welcomed, though it was still a lot less than if she was working in the local public system. Andy's new construction company was in a down period and he was having trouble turning it around. First there was that fire on site when a heater had been improperly filled with kerosene, and then there was that roofer who'd fallen and broken his leg. After that there were two weeks of bad weather left over from a hurricane which put them behind schedule and which they never made up, bringing the job in late. His insurance was sky-high and eating a big part of his profits for the year and probably next year as well.

With great regret, when Linda Hazlet called them just before Thanksgiving to ask if they might be interested in taking in another child, a girl whose parents had been killed in a car wreck, they talked about it but finally decided that they simply couldn't afford another it.

Dick knew about that, of course, much as they'd tried to keep it from him, and he felt guilty and ashamed that his good fortune was at the expense of someone else who was in the same position he'd been in a few years ago.

That was the year they went to visit Andy's brother down near Orlando over Christmas. Johnny worked over at Disney and could get free passes—a big help. They were planning on driving down, but managed to find cheap plane tickets at the last minute, shaving a couple of days off their travel time. Staying with Johnny and his family saved them enough money they could afford the splurge and Dick met his new Florida cousins for the first time, bonding over the Tower of Terror and a full day at Universal—another freebie through a neighbor who worked in the lighting department there. The kids all seemed to get along well, and it appeared to Andy and Bonnie that he enjoyed having other kids around who were actually—well, sort of—related. It was something new for Dick and he reveled in it.

One of the things that caught the cousins' attention was that Dick knew all about the visual tricks, the lighting, the costumes and the stagecraft they were seeing at the parks. They would be at one of the shows and Dick would say—"That's just a reflection in a piece of Mylar. Really easy to do." Or, "He's just stilt walking. You didn't think that guy was really eight feet tall, did you?" "That's rear projection, man, no big deal."

The next morning when everyone was going to drive over to the beach, though, despite the fun they'd all been having, Dick asked if he could stay behind.

"But you love to swim, honey—aren't you feeling well? Did you get too much sun yesterday?"

Dick never could lie well, not to the people he cared about and he was afraid of hurting Bonnie's feelings.

"Dick?"

"It's just that—I, um, I sort of called Pop Haley from Universal last night and he said, I mean—he said that I could spend the day over with him." He was blushing, afraid he'd either get in trouble or that Bonnie would cry or something.

"How were you going to get there?"

"He said he'd pick me up—don't be mad at him, I told him—I sort of told him that it was okay with you guys."

Over the years since the murders, Dick tried to stay in touch with the circus people and a number of them had written him as well. There would be Christmas and birthday presents and letters from all over the country. In alternate years, the letters and cards and packages would arrive from the bi-annual European tour and Dick would smile at the postcards—London, Prague, Paris, Vienna, Munich and the rest, remembering when he traveled with his parents from country to country and city to city. He would make a pilgrimage into Gotham when they played at the arena and he was always welcomed as the prodigal returning. They'd make a big deal over him, smother him with hugs, insist that he stay and eat with them and the entire show would be directed to wherever he was watching from that year—though usually he'd prefer just standing backstage with his old friends.

He never brought anyone with him, other than the Porters of course, no friends or any of the kids from the neighborhood. It was another part of his life, and one he kept separate.

Of necessity, his life was going in a different direction than it would have been if the Grayson's hadn't been killed, but he still loved the people from his old life and the Porter's allowed and encouraged him the contact. He would always return from these visits in a melancholy mood and several days would pass before he could pull himself out of it. The knowledge of what he lost was hard to swallow and he was still only twelve.

The day after the visit with Pop and a few of the others, Andy saw the pattern repeating and followed Dick out to the back yard, sitting on the picnic table bench next to him.

"You alright?"

Dick hesitated before answering, which wasn't like him. "Yeah, fine."

"Visit not go well?"

"It was okay."

He knew what the problem was. It was painfully obvious. "You feel like an outsider with them now, is that it?"

He nodded, sniffing slightly, but not about to cry. "It was bound to happen, I guess. It's not like we see each other all the time or anything. I'm not really part of them now. I used to be but it's like—I don't know, I guess it's just not the same."

"Do you still want to work with them this summer? The offer Mr. Haley made when he was up in the city, when you spent the weekend with them—does that sound like something you'd like to do?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I can't fly by myself and the new act he brought in is full so—I don't know."

"Things move on, people move on, Dick." He put his arm around the boy's shoulders. "It's hard sometimes."

Dick nodded. He knew he wouldn't tour with the circus this coming summer or likely ever again.

Until now he'd somehow thought that he'd end up back with the old people, back in his old life. Now he realized that it probably would never happen and the understanding was difficult.

The visits with the therapist continued, though the Porters didn't let Dick know the insurance had stopped covering them a year earlier. It was too important for them to stop and if it meant Hamburger Helper for dinner again, well, that's what it meant but it was getting harder and harder to balance the checkbook every month. About eight months after Blue Cross stopped paying the bills they opened the latest notice to find the total less than a third of what they'd come to expect. Calling the doctor's office, Bonnie was told that since the insurance company had denied the claim, the doctor would be charging the amount that they would get if the insurance was still in effect and that the new total was correct. In fact, they were owed a refund since the office hadn't caught it before this. Relieved, Bonnie told the woman on the other end that Dick would continue with the doctor, absolutely.

Alfred nodded in satisfaction when Leslie Thompkins reported the latest update back to him. The boy was making great progress and that would continue.

There had been a day several years ago when Bruce has asked Alfred for yet another update on the Grayson boy and Alfred had finally asked what the interest in the youngster was.

Bruce paused to consider the question, probably never having articulated it before and tried to slough it off at first. "I help a lot of people, you know that."

"Indeed you do, but this young man seems to take more of your attention than most."

"Beyond the obvious of our both having similar traumas when we were small children?" Alfred nodded. "I suppose it's because he—has so much potential. You noticed that back when he was here, didn't you? I think he can be someone. In fact, I think he may end up being someone important. Besides, it's not like I keep close tabs on him. I doubt if I've even lain eyes on him more than once since he left here."

"Are you sorry you let him go, then?"

Bruce's answer was decisive. "What in the name of God would I do with a child tagging along? The boy needed a stable family, not the part time attention I could have provided. No, we did the right thing."

So the perimeters of Dick's day-to-day life were set. He would get up by seven, shower, eat and go to school then afterwards walk over to Sergei's gym for three hours, shower again then go home for dinner and homework. On weekends he did his regular chores, did what he could to help around the house and occasionally saw a movie with a friend, though that was rare, as he felt guilty about spending the money.

Money. God. He could hear his parents talking about it and the tone of their voices was becoming increasingly frightened.

They might lose the house.

The green car needed repairs.

Bonnie needed dental work and they didn't have the coverage.

Andy needed a new air compressor for his work and the model he was looking at was over four thousand dollars.

Dick's trip to the Junior Nationals was going to cost over four hundred dollars.

As he lay in bed hearing the conversation through the wall and the vent, he realized that there were some things he could do to help, even if it was just a little.

The next day he went door to door, drumming up business to mow lawns, clean basements and garages. He would rake leaves, shovel snow. He put fliers up on local bulletin boards, offering to do odd jobs. From that day on, he covered as many of his personal expenses as he could out of the money he earned. When he needed a new gym uniform after his was stolen, he told no one and bought it himself. When he needed school supplies, he rode his bike over to the local K-mart and got them. If his jeans wore out or went high water, he'd check the papers for a sale and buy them himself. He did it quietly and it was a couple of months before his parents noticed what was happening and even then they didn't attach much importance to it since he was an independent child anyway, just by nature. He would make excuses of having to finish homework or some project and skip movies when his friends called. He stopped buying cassettes and videos and games for the computer. He made his winter coat last another year and when he found out that Bonnie would go without new tires for her car, he withdrew from the Junior Nationals meet—claiming an injured Achilles tendon and feigning a limp—and freeing up four hundred dollars. He stopped going to five-day-a-week training sessions and cut down to twice a week to save the extra charges and when Sergei asked him why, Dick told him that he was having trouble keeping up in school and needed to study.

"But is all a mistake. If you go, you will win National's. You will win scholarships if you win then you'll have enough money to train. You'll be world champion when you're twenty, maybe younger—you'll see that I'm right."

"Sergei, c'mon, you know what's going on with my parents. This is more important than back flips."

"You could be best in the world."

"And then what? It's not like football or baseball or something. It's not like I'm ever going to get rich from it."

"But you'll be the best."

"I can compete when I get to high school, they have a team. It'll be fine."

"Compete in high school?" He made it sound like a disease. "You were beyond high school when you were six years old. You should quit if that's all you think of what we do here. Is for more than just money, what we do—you can be the best in the world. You know this..."

"You don't understand—it's more important than medals or..."

"I know, but—you're good. This is what you were born for."

"Hanging from bars and sticking dismounts?" Dick knew that Sergei had pinned his hopes for the gym on Dick's success, that if he won, the publicity would bring in new students. He knew that, but he had to help out at home. That was more important. "I'm sorry, Sergei. I really am."

The Russian looked at the boy—he'd do what he thought was important, but it was a waste of talent. He was better at twelve than a lot of the men competing now internationally. He could be the best; no one would be his equal in a couple of years—if he didn't quit. But—it couldn't be forced. He had to want to do it or it wouldn't work. "So you do what you think you must. You come here when you can."

When Dick left to cut a lawn instead of finessing his dismount from the parallels, Sergei called Alfred. Maybe this was solvable.

About three weeks later Andy came home with roses for Bonnie and thick London broil steaks for the grill.

"You won't believe the damn call I got this afternoon—you are just not going to believe this." He was opening the bottle of wine they were saving for guests. "You know that big renovation over at Wayne's place? The contractor they had working for them left them high and dry because of some lawsuit—and guess who was number two on the list?"

"Andy—no!"

"I went over there at two and by four-thirty I had the job—six hundred thousand dollars, and that's just the beginning. If he's happy with the work we do, then stage two kicks in and that's another two and a half million dollars."

"So—you get ten percent?"

"I get ten percent after expenses. Sixty thousand dollars from the first phase—sixty thousand dollars!"

Up in his room, doing homework, Dick heard the conversation and it was great news, but he knew how these things worked. Contracts could get cancelled or there could be cost overruns, which would eat the profits. Maybe Mr. Wayne wouldn't like the work and Andy would be fired.

No. This didn't change anything.

And Dick was getting tired of Bruce Wayne riding to the rescue like the damn cavalry, even if he was the only one who seemed to notice what was going on.

He knew that he'd bought Sergei the gym—they were talking about it the other day. No, no names were mentioned, but who else could it have been? A 'local man who likes to support the community and see the kids are well equipped'. C'mon, how smart did you have to be to figure that one out?

And that thing with the shrink dropping her fees by like two thirds? Oh, right—that happened all the time. Of course it did. All Dick didn't know was who made the call; Wayne himself or that old English guy.

And now Andy gets a contract to fix Wayne's frigging house just when his company was threatened with folding? Uh-huh.

Well, screw it. Andy and Bonnie did need the money and he was a big drain with the shrink and the gymnastics over the last few years and food and clothing and all the stuff for school. It seemed like every time he turned around the school wanted another ten or twenty dollars for some beg-a-thon or field trip or something. And they'd bought him that new bike for Christmas and there was that trip to Florida—it was a lot of money going out and if Wayne had decided to make them one of his charities, well, what the hell.

Of course, that didn't mean that he didn't get what was going or that he had to like it, but he could suck it up for now.

TBC

10/4/04

8


	4. In Another Land Part 4

Title: In Another Land Part Four

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim.

**In Another Land **

Part Four 

"Master Bruce. Will you be going out later this evening?"

"Of course."

"Might I inquire as to where you might be found, should the need arise?"

"You have communication devices at your disposal, Alfred. Use them."

The older man handed Bruce the small steak and salad he'd prepared for him and looked to see what he was studying so intently on his desk. It was a copy of the local sports section. "Work, sir?"

"Dick. Dick Grayson won his age group at the State Championships last week. Gymnastics—he won four out of the six individual events as well as the all-around."

"Yes, he seemed to be a talented young man. Perhaps one day there'll be one like him here, should you ever decide to marry, sir."

"I have everything I need right now. Drop it, please."

Alfred left the room as quietly as he'd entered it. There wasn't a sound in the large home other than the ticking of the grandfather's clock in the entranceway. "No, Bruce. You don't."

One day when Dick was about thirteen he was in the local hardware store picking up a new stopper for the kitchen sink for his parents. Finding what he was looking for, he took it up to the counter when a tall man caught his attention.

Bruce Wayne buying stuff to kill a hornet's nest? Didn't he have about twenty people on his payroll to deal with that kind of thing for him? Maybe if he went around the next aisle Wayne wouldn't notice him—and he probably didn't remember him anyway, what with him being Bruce Wayne and everything...

Since he'd been living in town he'd slowly clued into the fact that Bruce Wayne—'THE Bruce Wayne', as he was usually referred to—was pretty much it around here. He was obscenely rich; he was head of some big hot shit company that did God knew what and he gave a lot of money away to various good causes. He paid for the new science wing at the high school, he donated the money for the new football field at the junior high and he paid for most of the addition for the town library, too. Oh, and he wasn't married so probably he was either gay or he really liked to screw around. Or both.

And since he'd spent that week with the man after his parents deaths, Dick hadn't heard from him even once—not a Christmas card, not a 'hey, how's it going'. Nothing. Well, it wasn't like they traveled in the same circles or anything. Yeah, sure, he knew the Porter's were one of his unofficial charities, but it was still cheesy to not even—well, something, acknowledge that they were on the same planet, anyway.

"Dick—it is you, isn't it? You're more than a foot taller than the last time I saw you, I almost didn't recognize you standing there."

"Hello, Mr. Wayne. It's nice to see you again." All his formal training in manners from Bonnie, the stuff he almost never used, came out.

"You're looking well—what are you up to these days?" In fact he looked like any junior high student on the planet, hair a little too long, jeans a little too big, the bottoms fraying and a black tee shirt. He was better built and better looking than any of the others, of course, but then Dick had been a pretty kid; it stood to reason he was growing into an exceptionally handsome young man. His eyes—amazing.

He shrugged. "School, mostly. And I mow lawns and do pick up work. You know, stuff."

Wayne nodded. "It must help pay for dates and movies, right?"

Yeah, sure—and clothes and school supplies and lunch and tires for his bike. You know, the frivolous stuff. He racked his brain. There must be something he could think of to say to this man. "I don't have a girlfriend. I do gymnastics—over at Sergei's place."

"That big gym over by the tracks? I hear he's quite good—you enjoy it, do you?" He took a beat. "I saw you won the state meet a couple of weeks ago. Congratulations, that's quite an accomplishment."

Bruce Wayne noticed he'd won a gymnastics meet? Like the man didn't have enough to do? "It was just my age division, but it's pretty good, yeah." Wayne was giving Dick an appraising look that was making him uncomfortable. "How's the work going at your house? It almost done now?"

"It's going well—your Dad is doing a great job. I'm pretty happy with what's being done over there. Look, I wonder—maybe you can help me out with something."

Him help out Wayne? Doing what, scratching his butt for him? "What do you need?"

"Alfred—you remember him, don't you? Well, Alfred is starting to get older and maybe you could come over a couple of times a week, maybe on Saturdays or something, and help him with some of the things that I'd rather he didn't do anymore. There's more heavy lifting now that the renovations are underway, a lot of things have to be shifted around from one place to another so I'd need you to move furniture, carry things that are too heavy for him, that sort of thing. I'd be willing to pay, say fifteen dollars an hour."

What the...fifteen dollars an hour to shove around a few chairs and carry a few boxes? "Well, sure, if you want, but don't you have a lot of people there to do that sort of thing anyway?"

"That's the problem. You see, Alfred doesn't think he needs help and I don't want to hurt his feelings, so if I could let him think that, if you..."

"If he thinks I need the money he'll go along with it?"

"Basically, that's it, yes. I don't want him hurting himself and he's stubborn."

"Sure, sounds like something I can do. When do you want me to start?"

"Are you busy now? I can give you a ride over to my place, let you and Alfred get reacquainted—if you're not expected anywhere, that is."

He was supposed to work out this afternoon for a few hours, but this was money. He could work out tomorrow or Monday. "No, I'm good for a couple of hours or so."

"You want to call your parents to let them know where you are?"

"It's okay. I just have to be back in time to cut the grass."

They walked out to Wayne's car, a relatively understated Jag sedan, and headed out to the Manor.

"So I guess things worked out for you with the Porter's? You're happy with them? They're good to you?"

"Andy and Bonnie? Yeah, they're great."

"You know, I was worried that you might think that I didn't want you or something when you were staying with me—you didn't think that, did you?"

Of course he thought that. In fact, he didn't just think it; he knew it for a fact. Wayne didn't want some dumb orphaned Gypsy kid hanging around his stupid mansion and Alfred—the old guy—sure as hell didn't want to deal with it for even ten minutes.

"Dick? Is that what you thought?"

"I guess you wanted to do what was best for me, right? Finding me a new set of parents?"

"I wanted you to have as good a home as was possible and the Porters' are good people. I live alone and I'm always having to fly to Europe or Asia or someplace for a couple of weeks, plus I'm not married. You would have been largely raised by Alfred or a nanny. I didn't think that was the best thing for you, especially after..."

"After my parents were killed?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, well, it happened when I was eight—it's been a while, so don't worry about it."

They pulled through the big gates and started up the mile long driveway. Bruce stopped by the front door, both of them getting out and going inside. From what Dick could see, nothing much had changed since the last time he was there. The work must be happening on another part of the property.

They found Alfred in the kitchen breading the veal for dinner and after a brief rundown of what would be expected of Dick and when he would be needed at the Manor, the deal was made. It was clear to Dick that Alfred knew exactly what was going on and Bruce's bullshit about how Dick would just be learning the ropes—of what? Butlering? Schleping boxes? Right, whatever—that was overlooked.

He'd ride his bike over on Saturdays at ten and would come back Sunday afternoons if they needed him then, too. He was given a ride home by one of the gardeners and Bruce was sitting in the study reading the paper when Alfred brought him an unexpected and welcomed glass of wine. The silence of the old house was almost like a shroud over the place and one Bruce was used to and welcomed.

"Why on Earth is that child going to be showing up here, Master Bruce?"

"They need the money and this will allow me to keep an eye on what he needs."

"I suppose, but forgive me, why do you care? The boy seems just fine, if a bit scruffy. Guilty conscience from when you sent him away?"

Bruce gave Alfred one of his glares. "I didn't and you know that. I found him a home where he would have two parents and be wanted and loved. Which he is."

"And you bought that man a gym for the youngster's use and made sure that his school has the best possible facilities. Generous though all this is, I'm at a loss to understand it.

Besides, need I add that if he's to be spending that much time here, there are certain things he might become curious about."

"There's no reason for him to know about anything he doesn't need to be aware of. I'm sure you can handle that, Alfred."

"Of course, sir. It's fortunate that you chose to work alone, though. You know what they say about keeping secrets between people."

Bruce eyes went back to his paper, but he spoke before Alfred could leave the room. "Do you think I did the right thing, finding him another home? He wouldn't have had such a bad life here and he would have brightened the place up."

"He would have tracked mud all over the house and bombarded us with the noise young people refer to as music nowadays. The phone would never have stopped ringing and if he proved to be less than we hoped, we would have been burdened with countless complications and living with endless locked doors. Really, you know you work better alone. You always have and likely always will."

"Yes, I suppose you're right, but sometimes I think it might be pleasant to have..."

"To have what, sir? To have a child underfoot? To constantly worry about his welfare and his safety. You can't possibly be entertaining the though of allowing a child along on your 'excursions', are you? That doesn't bear contemplation."

"No, I suppose you're right, this is the best way. Things are fine just as they are."

By the time Dick was fourteen he was probably the most popular kid in his school, and a large part of the reason was that if anyone had told him that he was, he would have been embarrassed and disbelieving.

Sure, he knew he had friends, but it wasn't like he was anything special, he just tried to be nice to people—treat them like he wanted to be treated. That was what his mother—his real mother had always said and she was right. People seemed to like him and it made things more pleasant.

He was truly modest about himself and genuinely kind but beyond that he was simply fun to be around He was upbeat and usually pretty happy. It was all a winning combination.

He got good grades, but he worked hard for them in his classes. He couldn't count the number of nights he'd stayed up until one or two in the morning to make sure an essay was right or that the book was read.

He didn't see what the other kids saw; that he was smarter than just about any of them and compassionate, that he never mocked the class losers and that he was the best looking boy in the school. What the other kids knew was that he was popular and well liked through no apparent effort on his part, though if anyone had told him the reason for his many friends, he would have laughed and not believed a word they said. He was so used to the envious and fawning looks he got when he walked down the halls that he didn't even see them—and wouldn't have believed them for what they were if he did notice. It was more likely that he'd check to make sure his fly was up.

He wasn't all that active in school activities simply because he didn't have the time. He was back to five afternoons a week over at Sergei's gym and this year he was going to the Junior Championships—he had reversed his decision when he made the money himself, though he seriously considered just giving it to Bonnie. The only reason he hadn't was because he knew she wouldn't take it. The fact was that he still paid for as much of his expenses as he could and the rest went into a bank account he'd opened. He now had almost five thousand dollars there and he knew he'd probably need it some day for something or other.

The thing about the gymnastics which no one seemed to understand was that he didn't care if he won or not. Well, not really. He cared about performing well, of doing a good job, but that was it. The medals didn't make any difference to him. In a very real way he did gymnastics simply because he loved it, loved the movement and the freedom of movement he had, loved feeling like he was flying and defying gravity—the feeling that he was in control. It was as close to sport for the pure love of it as probably could be found and he only entered the competitions to please his parents.

And he knew that his win would help Sergei.

He thought that Andy might understand as well, though they'd never talked about it. Bonnie was simply proud.

And beyond that, gymnastics were his connection to what he used to be and what he'd probably still be if things had turned out differently. They were his link to his real parents and his past. On some level he believed that was understood and so felt no reason to discuss it with anyone. Besides, if it wasn't understood by anyone else, well, that didn't matter either. His reasons for gymnastics were something he largely kept to himself, anyway. It was too personal to tell anyone.

"Andy, did you see this?"

"What?"

"This bank statement. Dick has a savings account and it has close to five thousand dollars in it."

He gave her a blank look. "What are you talking about? Where the hell would he get that kind of money?"

"Well, he does mow a lot of lawns and he's always doing odd jobs—and he's over at Wayne's every weekend. I guess it just added up. And Christmas and birthday money—you know."

"Are you going to say anything to him about it?"

"...I don't know. You don't think he'll do anything he shouldn't with it, do you?"

"Dick? I doubt it."

"It's a lot of money for a kid, though."

He's fine. Knowing him, he'll probably put it towards a car when he's old enough or something like that."

"...I guess."

"Your parents not coming to championships, Dick? I don't see them anywhere."

"They have to work. It's okay."

"You pay attention, you concentrate, you'll win."

"Mom? Mom? I won the all-around. I did it!"

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so proud of you and Dad will be, too. That's wonderful. You didn't get hurt, did you?"

"God, no. I'm like the youngest competitor here and I won on my first try—God. I stuck every routine, Mom—you should have seen it. I hit every trick, every one of them, even the quad off the high bar. The judges had a conference about whether or not to allow it, but I proved to them I could land it every time and they had to—even Sergei was smiling and he never smiles at anything. And I still have all of the individuals tomorrow and there were scouts here from some colleges—they said that maybe I could get scholarships and stuff in a couple of years."

"Honey, that's wonderful, just wonderful. Wait till your Dad hears, he'll be so excited..."

"Is he there?"

"He's working late, but the minute he comes home I'll tell him. We'll call your room at the Radisson, is that alright?"

"That would be—hell, I have to go out to dinner, but later, okay?"

"As soon as he gets home, I promise. He'll be thrilled, he wanted so much to be there with you, but he'll be thrilled. Sergei is taping everything, isn't he? We'll talk to you later, sweetheart."

Two days later Sergei dropped Dick off at the house. He'd spoken to Andy later the night of the all around, but yesterday had been really chaotic with the individual apparatus medals being decided and then they had to leave really early for the drive back. Dick had scored another two gold's, three silver's and a bronze, the highest take of anyone there. He'd given his first interviews since he was in the circus to a couple of reporters and even to some guy from Sports Illustrated who'd taken his picture for their 'Faces in the Crowd' section. He'd even signed a bunch of autographs for a bunch of girls who squealed when he walked close to them, embarrassing him no end and receiving no help when Sergei laughed and told him to get used to it.

The front door was slightly ajar. "Mom? Dad?"

Nothing.

"Mom?"

The door hadn't been locked, so someone was around. He dropped his bag in the hall and walked into the kitchen. There was a lot of food on the counter—sandwich trays, cakes, a couple of casseroles, and a whole roasted chicken from the supermarket—all kinds of things. There were a couple of vases of flowers, too, just sitting there. They were having a party? So where was everyone?

"Mom? Dad?"

He continued through to the living room, which was also empty and then, finally hearing something, went into the den.

Bonnie was sitting on the couch with her legs pulled up. She was hugging a throw pillow on her lap. Her face was pale and though she seemed like she was trying to hold it together, it was obvious that she'd been crying. She never cried. In the six years Dick had been living there, he'd never seen her cry.

"Mom?"

"Honey...it's your Dad."

TBC

10


	5. In Another Land Part 5

**In Another Land**

Part Five 

Andy had been driving home from Wayne Manor, rushing to get there before Dick got home. He and Bonnie had planned a big cookout in celebration—all their friends would be there and the word had gone out to a lot of kids in the gym as well and they all knew Dick had scored in every event he'd entered at the Junior Championships. They'd blown the budget on steaks and chicken for the grill, a cake had been ordered and the speakers were set up outside for music.

Christ, working for Wayne was a damned two edged sword, if you asked him. Sure the guy paid well and it would probably lead to more high paying work, but the man was a closed book, cold as ice—and that damned butler of his—he man hadn't so much as smiled once since the work began. The first day Wayne had shown him around, the day he got the contract, the man had left for five minutes to take a phone call and Andy had started through the first floor to see what kind of woodwork he'd have to match. Things like that made a big difference on pricing. He'd gotten to the pantry and was checking out the wainscoting when Alfred had found him, just about gone white and instructed him, in no uncertain terms, that he was to leave certain rooms undisturbed, thank you. After what was obviously a whispered conversation between Wayne and his hired help, the job was suddenly changed to an addition for the garage and the stables instead of the update to the kitchen and laundry room.

Whatever. If Wayne didn't want him inside his fancy house that was fine with him cause God knew the money was still pretty good. A garage or a kitchen made no difference to him. Work was work and he was almost half through with the job. Wayne seemed pleased and he was already talking about what else he wanted to be done to the place.

When Andy got to the top of that rise, the one with the big curve, he saw that the truck, the big one delivering the double load of slate tiles for Wayne's garage roof, was in the middle of the road and straddling the line.

With less than three seconds to react, he had no chance and was pronounced dead at the scene.

Bonnie had received a call from the local ER saying only that her husband had been in an accident. She had gone over immediately. When she'd arrived a doctor told her, as gently as she could, that they had done everything they could and—apologetically—asked if she knew someone she could call. When she didn't understand what they were asking her, the doctor asked, gently, if she knew someone who would be willing to identify the body. In shock, she called a friend, an RN who would be used to these sorts of things. Karen had arrived within twenty minutes, hair wet from the shower and Bonnie overheard the ER doctor say something about 'brain matter was being cleaned off the victim'.

A local funeral home was called, no autopsy had been requested and Bonnie was taken home.

Tests showed that Andy had neither alcohol nor drugs in his blood stream.

That was four hours ago.

Word was going out already, food and people were arriving for both for the party and the funeral, friends were in and out and Dick just happened to walk in during a lull in the visitors.

"Mom?"

Something was really wrong. He looked around, finally finding her curled into herself on the couch in the den.

"Mom? What's going on?"

"It's Dad..."

Dick never had any clear memories of the next few days after that. For the rest of his life there were gaps in those days, just as there were from the days after his real parents had died.

She told him what she knew of the accident, that the truck driver was tired from a long day and hadn't slept much the night before because of hauling the tiles in from the quarry on a rush order. The man survived with a broken arm and was expected to make a full recovery.

Dick knew that Andy was dead, that he'd been killed instantly in a head on collision with a truck and that Karen, Bonnie's nurse friend met Bonnie at the hospital so that she wouldn't have to ID the body, which was pretty messed up from comments he'd caught.

He vaguely knew that he missed school and that there was a large group of his classmates and kids he knew from the gym and the neighborhood at the service, though only a few went back to the house afterwards.

He remembered that someone measured him then bought him a black suit and tie to wear and that Bonnie was wearing a black dress he'd never seen before.

He knew it was a high mass and that the church was filled to over flowing and that there was standing room in the back.

He saw the flowers and thought the mingled smells were nauseating. He thought that the church was too hot and he had trouble breathing, though he managed not to pass out and he remembered how hard Bonnie held on to his arm and his hand, though neither of them cried. Later he noticed the bruising on his bicep where she had clung to him.

Dick thought, during the receiving line as he was hugged and his cheek was kissed by crying friends that it hurt too much to cry but that maybe later he'd get around to it, when he was feeling better—well, when he was feeling again.

All these little scenes and thoughts—they were all like flashcards or slides, disconnected and disjointed in no particular order. Like snapshots in an album which belonged to someone else and which he hadn't really participated in but had merely watched as a stranger, detached and uninvolved.

A week later he returned to school and he found it sort of interesting that no one knew how to talk to him or what to say. He noticed that kids would watch him out of the corners of their eyes and teachers pitched their voices lower when speaking to him, probably in an effort not to upset him.

He was called down to guidance and gently told that if he wanted to talk, they were there for him but he just answered that he was probably going back to the same therapist he'd gone to the last time his parents had died. He'd been through this before—he'd be alright.

Really.

The counselors had repeated that they were there and he thanked them, never going back other than for schedule changes and the usual things any student deals with.

One of the few things he did notice was that the house was quiet now. The TV was kept of, the radio wasn't used, he didn't play any of his music and he and Bonnie didn't talk all that much. The few things they said were subdued and the conversation would die after an exchange or two, lapsing back into silence. They kept to themselves, each in their own room and each with their own thoughts.

He did, finally, hear Bonnie crying one night sometime in the second week after the accident, after he was in bed and she was in her own room. The walls were still thin and he could hear her. From then on he heard the crying every night and would cover his head with his pillow to block it out.

He didn't cry.

He loved Bonnie and they both missed Andy but they simply couldn't connect, as they had been able to do so easily when he was still there. They argued a lot about stupid things; the garbage or the lawn.

Dick's grades suffered, knowing that Andy would be disappointed and that Bonnie was worried, but his schoolwork just didn't matter to him.

He didn't care.

He didn't go to the gym either and one day about a month after the funeral, Sergei came to the house to check on him, finding Dick in the back yard. He was sitting in one of the old Adirondack chairs and had one of Andy's old sweaters on against the chill.

They talked, but not about gymnastics or Andy. Sergei told him about how he'd felt when he'd left Russia for the US, how lonely he was and how he'd missed his family but had kept working anyway. He told Dick how his mother had died from cancer before he could get back to see her or to bring her over for a visit and his family was still angry about that. For a while they just sat quietly together. Finally Sergei got up to go; he had to run a class in a little while. "You come back when you're ready. It's okay."

Dick watched him go. He didn't want to go back.

He stopped returning calls from his friends and rarely went out.

He failed all of his mid terms.

Bonnie made him go back to the therapist and he did as he was asked and though he spent the required time in the sessions, he was apathetic and uncommunicative. He took the antidepressants and went through the motions of following the psychologist's instructions, but his heart wasn't in it this time.

There was also the worry about money now, more than ever. Andy's company was a one-man band in that he owned it himself with no partners. He had done almost all of the major work of getting jobs himself and had all the contacts. Bonnie had neither the time nor the expertise to pick up the slack and so the business quietly folded. The open contracts were given to other companies and the outstanding fees would be split, but wouldn't be enough to last for very long. Without Andy's income, they were falling back into the hole they had been climbing out of. Andy's life insurance had lapsed when they were in bad shape financially last year and there was a second mortgage on the house which had to be paid in addition to the first and the car payments.

One day Dick rode his bike down to the local bank and insisted to the manager that he wanted to use his personal account to make payments on the loans. He had that five thousand dollars from mowing lawns and Christmas and birthday money and all the rest, and though he knew it was just a drop in the bucket, it was all he had. The manager reluctantly agreed, but insisted that Bonnie had to know. Dick threatened to find a lawyer for breeching client confidentiality and though the manager knew it would never hold up in any court, let it go. The boy's mother would find out soon enough anyway.

It took care of two months worth of payments.

Next Dick tried to find out if there was any way he could crack the trust fund that had been set up for him when his other parents, his real parents had died. He was told that it was in the care of a trustee and would stay there until he was eighteen.

Who was the trustee?

Mr. Wayne had been appointed by the state following a suggestion from Andrew Porter. The money was being managed by Wayne's investment advisors as a college fund for the future.

Fine. He could work with this. Maybe.

When he called Wayne's home number he was told that Mr. Wayne was overseas. Asking whom he could speak to about the trust, he was given Lucius Fox's number. Mr. Fox, though quite kind, was adamant that the trust wouldn't be broken, though he would be happy to extend a loan to Mrs. Porter if things were as dire as Dick portrayed them.

No, thanks. They'd handle it on their own. No, there was nothing else he could do for them.

About a year after Andy's death, when Dick was almost sixteen, Bonnie began to come out of her fog and started noticing things. The last year had been a nightmare, but she'd thought they were starting to slowly pull out of it when she became more fully aware of the changes in Dick. His grades, for one thing. She had hoped that the nosedive was temporary, but it had been a while now and he still seemed to just be going through the motions in school and even that, just barely. But—he'd lost his second father to violent death in just seven years, that would shatter anyone, let alone an intelligent, sensitive youngster like Dick.

Oh, he was still mostly a good kid, polite and all, still mowed lawns and helped around the house and did whatever he could to make things easier for her. They had stopped the constant bickering, but he was different and she was worried—in fact, she was becoming frightened.

He'd dropped a lot of his old friends and he spent a lot of time alone in his room with the door closed. He rarely used the beloved gymnastic apparatus out in the back yard Andy had built for him.

She'd found out that he'd paid the bills for a couple of months, of course, and had tried to talk to him about it but he refused to accept anything back or even discuss it. When she had opened another account for him and replaced the money there, he saw the bank statement and told her that he wouldn't take it. He wanted to help her and he knew that right now she needed the money more than he did. He was upset about that, insisting that he wasn't a child, he could help and was adamant about contributing his share.

He was depressed and God knew he had enough to be depressed about, but it seemed like it was more than that and she was frightened for him and sometimes she was afraid of him, as well.

It wasn't that he'd ever done or said anything to make her think he would ever hurt her—in fact he was more protective of her than he'd been before Andy's death, it was just that he was so—different.

She'd smelled marijuana on him a few of times when he'd come it and she saw his eyes. He was using and she was terrified that he would find stronger things to take away the pain. She tried to talk to him about it, but he would either deny everything or simply storm out. He was larger than she was now, close to six feet tall and he was strong from the gymnastics and all the yard work he was still doing. While Bonnie didn't believe that he would ever harm her, nor had he ever threatened her, he was intimidating just by his size and mood.

She called his therapist, asking if she had any suggestions and the woman said she would talk to Dick, try to find out the extent of his use and they would take it from there. A week later the doctor called and said that though she couldn't beak patient confidentiality, she should know that there was a bigger problem than just the pot and she should talk to Dick, maybe get him tested and see what all he tested positive for.

One day, in the middle of all of this, Bruce Wayne called her at work during her lunch hour.

Bruce Wayne was calling her about her son. God, this was beyond belief. Didn't the man have enough to keep him busy?

"Mrs. Porter? Forgive my interrupting you like this, but I've been concerned that Dick hasn't shown up at my place the last few weeks. I depend on him to help Alfred and if he's not here—well, Alfred is getting too old to do everything himself and Dick is the only one he accepts any assistance from."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne. I'll speak to him this evening about it and have him call you."

"Thank you, I'd appreciate that. Mrs. Porter, I don't want to pry, but how is he adjusting? I, forgive me, Alfred thought he noticed some changes in his behavior and attitude the last few times he's been over."

No kidding. "It's been difficult for him. He stopped going to the therapist almost three months ago and—Andy's death, Dick blames himself. He insists that since Andy was driving to welcome Dick home from that big gymnastics meet, it's his fault. If he hadn't won, Andy wouldn't have been on that road then, he would have just worked till the end of the day like usual and he would have gotten home in one piece." She stopped herself. Why in the name of God had she just blathered all this to a man she barely knew?

"Does he really believe that?"

"Oh, God...I don't know. Maybe. He hasn't set foot in the gym since that day, I do know that."

"He's taking drugs, isn't he?"

"...Yes."

"I could try to talk to him if you'd like. I don't know him as well as some others, but he did stay here when he was first orphaned and, well, I like the boy. I'd hate to see him get into real trouble."

The drug tests—which had infuriated Dick— proved positive for marijuana, cocaine and ecstasy. Dick didn't even bother to deny his use, insisting he could stop whenever he wanted. He said it helped and please leave him alone. From then on he refused to engage at all and she was starting to believe that the only solution was that she might have to send him to some clinic or rehab—which she couldn't even begin to afford at $30,000 a month for the good ones and no guarantees. Suddenly his poor grades didn't seem to matter as much as they had a few months before.

"Maybe when he goes over to your place this weekend, Mr. Wayne. I'll make sure that he's there, but he's, Dick is hurting and I don't know that he'll listen to you. Please try, but, well, I don't know."

"Mrs. Porter, Bonnie? Please call me Bruce and I'll try."

The next Saturday Dick was in Wayne's twenty-car garage cleaning up a case of oil, which had somehow fallen from a shelf. A couple of the quarts had broken open and there was a puddle of 10-W-40 on the concrete floor.

"How's that coming?"

Dick had a pair of headphones on, listening to Eminem while he worked and was startled when Alfred tapped him on the shoulder. He let the 'phones hang around his neck. "It's okay. I'll get it. If you have some cat litter it will help soak this shit up."

Alfred nodded and got a bag out of a cabinet, raising his eyebrow at the language.

"Thanks." He went back to working while the old man pretended to change an air filter. He thought he could smell pot on the kid, but with all the oil wasn't completely sure. He also had a runny nose.

"We were wondering where you were the last few weeks—were you alright?"

"Oh, yeah—sorry. I forgot to call. Something came up. Sorry."

"How is school coming along this year? What are you now? A junior?"

"Sophomore. It's fine." He was flunking half his classes and had either a 'D' or a 'C' in the rest. He used to be high Honor Roll.

"You know that your Mother and Mister Wayne are concerned about you, don't you?"

Dick looked up from the oil mess, not in the mood for one more lecture. "Did he ask you to say something? That's why Bonnie had a bug up her ass for me to come here today?"

Alfred stared Dick down about his language. "She's worried about you. She knows about the drugs and it scares her."

Dick glared at him. "I don't fucking believe this—what? It was on the local news or something? I told her, it's fine. She shouldn't worry. I'm..."

"You're what, young man?"

"I'm just ducky."

"You've had a rather stressful year, she knows that—but this won't solve it. It won't solve anything and you're smart enough to know that."

"They make me feel good, okay?" Dick stood up, wiping his hands on a rag. "I have to go now."

"Dick," Alfred put his hand lightly on Dick's arm. The boy stopped, glaring and pulling his arm free. "What would it take to get you to stop using? If things had worked out differently you might well have ended up living here—Master Bruce and I like you and we don't want you to go down that road any more than your mother does. There must be something you think might be of help."

Sure. Bring back my father—either one of them, in fact. Hell, bring back both and his mother for good measure while you're at it. "I have to go."

"Dick, please. What would help? What is it you want?"

Still angry but in better control of himself, Dick looked somewhere in mid space, not focusing on anything other than his own thoughts. "What is it I want? You really want to know?" Alfred nodded, yes, he did want to know and yes, he did care. "I want Andy to walk through the door with some dumb joke he heard on the site today and I want people to stop fucking asking me how I am all the time and then not giving a rat's ass about the answer." He looked over at Alfred, met his eyes and Alfred was struck again by the amazing color, even though they were a little bloodshot. "I want my Mom to stop crying all the time. I want her to be happy again and I don't have any idea how to make that happen. I don't want Mom upset and I know she is about this—and I want to be able to do gymnastics again" He paused, then, "I'll stop. Today. I won't use anything anymore." He seemed to make some kind of decision. "I want my parents to stop dying. That's what I want...I'll throw out what I have and I won't get more. Okay?"

That was much too easy. "Dick..."

"I promise, alright? I do, you can come with me. I'm quitting now, this is the end of it."

"It's not that simple."

"Sure it is. I don't want Mom to have any more shit to deal with than she already has. I'm done with it. I was thinking about this anyway, you just said it out loud. It's finished."

Alfred was dubious, but maybe...unlikely, but maybe. No. Not possible, not this easily. No. "If you need any help with this—whatever you want, whatever you think will work..."

"Yeah, I know. I'll call you." He turned back to the mess on the floor. "Was there anything else?" Alfred shook his head. "I'll finish this."

No, too easy, he agreed too fast. This wasn't the end. Even if Dick had meant what he'd just said about quitting—no, this was too fast and too easy.

When Dick got home later he made good his promise and did, indeed, throw out his stash, flushing it while Bonnie watched and promising that he wouldn't use drugs again. He apologized and said how he knew that Andy would have been disappointed and, hell; he'd never wanted that. He'd bring his grades up, too. It wasn't that hard. He knew he was smart and he knew how to study. He'd do it. It would all turn around starting today.

He swore to her that this was it. He promised.

About a month later Batman happened upon a group of kids making a score under one of the underpasses at two in the morning.

Caught in the bust was Dick Grayson. He tested positive for cocaine when he was arrested.

10


	6. In Another Land Part 6

Title: In Another Land Part Six

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim.

Note: Charlene was a huge and patient help on the legal details—thank you. Any legal mistakes I take all credit and blame for myself.

**In Another Land and Time**

Part Six 

Dick was arrested and booked as a minor. His mother was called, informed that her son was in custody and requested to come to the Fifth Precinct House in Gotham to get him as soon as possible. When Bonnie showed up about an hour after the call to give the boy a ride home, she asked Dick why he had done it and just received one of his shrugs as an answer. The ride home was silent with overtones of sullen mixed with extreme hurt. It was an attitude that was becoming too common between them, though this rated as an extreme case.

"But you knew that I was going to find out—didn't you think I'd notice you were missing in the middle of the night?"

"You never have before."

Lovely, he'd been doing this for a while—of course he'd been doing this for a while. "How long has this been going on?" Dick was slumped in the corner of the passenger seat, his face turned toward the window.

"I don't know. Maybe a few months."

"How long have you been using drugs?"

Surprisingly, Dick gave her a civil answer pitched in a normal voice instead of the string of insults and obscenities he'd taken to using when they spoke. "I was high at Andy's funeral—a couple of friends thought I needed something to relax me and they had some weed. It mellowed me out, it helped."

She'd been in no shape that day to notice anything—or for a couple of months afterwards, either, for that matter. "What made you decide to try cocaine? Surely you know it's addicting and all of that."

Dick made a small sound, a cross between resignation and exasperation. "Why do you think? It's a good high."

"Is that what you were on that day you were asked to work in Mr. Wayne's garage?"

"Yeah. Did Alfred call you about that?—I had a feeling he would." Dick's tone made it clear what he thought of a snitch.

"He made a couple of comments, nothing direct. He said enough for me to figure it out."

"Took you long enough."

"Dick—don't start."

Fine, whatever. Dick stared out the window, knowing he'd hurt his mother but not having the slightest idea how to make it better for her.

They rode another couple of miles in silence. "What I don't get is why Bruce gives a shit about me. I mean, he did his duty, his favor to Jim Gordon seven years ago and doesn't owe anyone anything, but Wayne keeps showing up to pull our nuts out of the fire—he bought Sergei the gym for me, he gave Andy the contract to fix up his house, he gave me a job for spending money. So, what's the deal? He like little boys or something?"

"You know better than that, Dick, and that wasn't funny—just like I thought that you're too smart to use drugs. And as for Mister Wayne's interest, I suggest you ask him directly the next time you see him."

This wasn't the sweet child they'd given a home to. That boy used to snuggle against her while she read to him or as they watched a movie. That child smelled like soap and shampoo and the Oreo's he ate after school and before bed—and who later smelled of mown grass or the cold from his shoveling snow. That little boy wouldn't go to sleep until she'd kissed him and tucked in his blanket. This angry young man smelled of sweat and stale smoke and the grease in his hair.

They pulled into the driveway. It was almost dawn and the lights were still on in the kitchen. Maybe Bonnie had known he was missing earlier when she'd gotten the call, maybe she was already up, getting ready for school when she'd left for the police station.

When Dick walked in the front door, Bonnie went into the kitchen, already dressed for work in a skirt and blouse, put her slippers back on her feet from where she'd left them in the front hall. She seemed beyond exhausted and likely afraid she'd hear what else Dick might have been doing—not that sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night and being busted at fifteen for buying cocaine from a narc wasn't enough.

They ended up sitting on opposite sides of the small island, both with cups of tea in front of them. "Are you alright?" Dick nodded, all things considered. She was about five feet away from him, though neither one breeched the gap either physically or emotionally. "I was worried about you—but you're alright?" He gave a small smile at that—she was kidding, right? He gave her another nod. "Good. Please get ready for school. Do you want breakfast first?"

Food was the last thing on his mind, but maybe they could talk. "Maybe eggs?"

She set about making him some scrambled eggs with ham, the way he liked them. "What happened?"

"I was arrested for purchasing and being in possession of a controlled substance. And I punched a cop, but they seemed to overlook that for some reason."

Bonnie didn't seem surprised. "Which drug did you buy?"

There was no point in lying; the truth would come out soon enough. "Cocaine, and I tested positive for it in my bloodstream. I also had a couple of joints in my pocket they found, so I guess I was booked for that, too. The sergeant told me that I'll be assigned a court date—probably in the next month or two—he said that the stuff they found on me has to be tested by the lab to make sure it's coke and grass, but it is. And we'll need to get a lawyer because coke is a felony." He stopped for a second. "If it's too much money, I'll be assigned one by the state. I was booked as a minor, so that should help, but it may be a crappy lawyer...."

She nodded almost absently. "Yes, I suppose that we'll have to see about that."

The silence came back.

"Mom, I'm sorry."

"I think it might have been better if I'd just left you there for a while." Bonnie was beating some eggs with a wisk. The entire house would fit in a corner of the Wayne estate garage. "That's what that sergeant said, that if they'd decided to add assaulting a police office to the charges you'd be held for a week instead of being released tonight—this morning." The pan was heated; she poured the eggs and ham in, the sizzling sounds started immediately. "Maybe that would have gotten through to you."

"Mom..." Oh, God, she was giving up on him. She wanted him gone so she wouldn't have to deal with his crap anymore.

"You've lost one set of parents and I guess now you blame yourself for losing your second father. I don't know how to make that better for you. I don't think anyone can do that and I would think that...you have to know that—there is no way to make it go away and Andy's not going to walk in one of these days. He's not. What you need to understand is that sometimes things happen which simply aren't anyone's fault and that to blame yourself—or me— is pointless."

"I know that—I do know that, Mom."

She looked so tired. "Dick—just get ready for school. We'll—we'll talk about this later."

When Bonnie checked, she found out that a decent lawyer willing to take the case would set her back over five thousand dollars and she simply didn't have the money. She considered asking Mr. Wayne to release some of Dick's inheritance from his parents, but decided against it; even though she laughed to herself that it could be considered an educational expense. Well, almost anyway.

Three weeks later they got a call—a Juvenile court counselor was coming to the house to evaluate the home situation and would report his findings back to the judge in a sentencing report to give an idea of what the kid was living with and what his home life was like. That should make for interesting reading.

Jim Gordon checked the report on his desk and knew it would be his job if he passed along anything that was in it. The case involved a minor, so the records were sealed. And yes, Jim knew that he was doing something he would be disciplined for if it was discovered, but he believed it was for the best in this case. It wasn't like Wayne had actually asked him, it was just something that might help a kid who needed all the help he could get right now.

Making a copy himself while his secretary was at lunch, he slipped it into his briefcase. Wayne might find it useful if he wanted to do what Jim suspected. It wouldn't be the first time the man had helped a kid in trouble this way and it had always turned out pretty well—so far, at least. Wayne seemed to have a way of picking kids who would appreciate the break they'd been given. No, he'd never in any way suggested that the kid have any special treatment or any such rot, but he did make the somewhat left handed comment that it would be good if the Porter kid had a decent lawyer assigned to his case instead of one of the burned out boilers.

Sure, Jim could understand that Wayne was still interested in the case, but hell's bells—all that had happened years ago and they'd done the best they could for the kid at the time. Wayne had taken him in so he wouldn't end up in some horrible place, they'd greased all the wheels to make sure the boy landed in with a nice family and it was just a crummy shame about what happened. No one could have seen that one coming.

It was even understandable why the kid would end up trying to medicate his problems away. Stupid, but understandable.

Later, Gordon joined Bruce Wayne for dinner at that new fancy restaurant on top of his newest building—the one you needed a reservation a month in advance to get into, unless you were Bruce Wayne, of course.

"So what's going on with the boy? How's it looking for him?" Jim slid the report across the table to him; Wayne took a couple of minutes to peruse the file while Gordon worked on his appetizer. Bruce had seen it before, of course. After all, tapping into the city's Department of Social Services records wasn't all that difficult for the Bat, but he would play the game of pretending it was the first time he'd looked at the kid's record—no point in Jim asking awkward questions after he tried to be helpful.

"Look, Bruce, you have to understand that all the people over there are overloaded with cases. With the budget cutbacks, we've had to let go almost fifteen lawyers and it's wrecking havoc with..."

"So it's not going well, I take it?"

Jim had never thought Wayne was the idiot he pretended to be. "I've seen a lot worse, but a felony is a felony."

"Look—if I pay one of my lawyers to take the case, will you make sure the family doesn't know I had anything to do with it?"

"Bruce..."

"I just want one of my people to handle it. What difference could it make other than to lighten the load on one of your overworked grunts?"

"Well..."

"Good, it's settled then. I'll have Lucius send someone over in the morning to get the reports, alright?" Gordon nodded. Wayne was right. It would take one case away from someone who didn't have the time to look at it anyway. Fine. "And try the beef, Jim, it's really quite good here."

Bonnie and Dick met with the woman they thought was a court appointed attorney, a young woman one year out of law school whose idealism seemed to be headed south fast. She was, in fact, one of the young Turks who scared the hell out of anyone the head of Legal for Wayne Corp her department head decided to sic her on.

"You were caught red handed making a purchase from a narc, you had marijuana on you at the time and when you were taken in, you tested positive for both drugs in your system. You were also out without your mother's knowledge or permission after midnight and your town has a ten o'clock curfew for minors. In addition to which, when the officer tried to take you in, you threw a punch at him, loosening three of his teeth. That's purchase and possession of controlled substances—cocaine is a felony, by the way, and assault of a police officer. The assault charges haven't been filed, but they still could be. Are you going to fight this or admit guilt?"

"I, um..."

"Frankly, they've pretty much got you. I'd suggest that you tell the judge you did it, bring in the recent death of your father as a mitigating circumstance and promise you'll never do it again—and then don't do it again."

"Will I go to jail?"

She'd been through this a thousand times. "Probably not. Most likely you'll get probation with community service, mandated drug counseling, probably a fine or a work program to reimburse expenses. That's the usual in cases like this."

"What about a record? Will I have a record?"

"It's expunged when you turn eighteen." How many times had she answered that question?

"So that's it? I tell the judge I did it, I'm sorry and he slaps my wrist?"

Stupid kids. He was somewhere between disbelief and a smirk.

"No, it means you'll—if you're lucky—get a year or so probation, you'll have to undergo mandatory drug counseling. You'll mostly likely have a court-imposed curfew that you damn well better keep. You'll report to a parole officer once a month—something you also damn well better do. You'll be subject to unscheduled and random drug tests, which I strongly advise you to pass. You'll also submit to warrantless searches if anyone has any reason to suspect anything at all about you not keeping to the straight and narrow. If you fail any of this you can be remanded to custody—that means you go to Juvie for up to five twenty-four hour periods on the say so of your PO who does not need a judge to okay it. And that doesn't have to be for a drug offense—that could be for general misbehavior. If there's a second offense that warrants a trip back to the judge, you're in for two weeks, third time it's six months. If there's a fourth violation you will go to jail for a minimum of six months or until your eighteenth birthday." She looked at the not-quite-so-carefree face. "This starting to sink in, is it?"

Yes, it was.

"The fact that your adoptive father was recently killed is a mitigating circumstance, especially coming after the fact of your biological parents' deaths, but don't think those are going to get you off. You're still guilty of a felony—you listening to me?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now when we get to court you show up in a suit if you own one, I want you showered and your hair washed. You will sit there and do what I tell you. You'll be polite and you'll leave any crappy attitude you may have at the door. You do these things and you might get to go home afterwards. You go off on your own tangent and all bets are off. Any questions? No? Good. I'll see you in ten days at nine AM. I'll meet you in front of the court house."

Since the drug bust and his arrest, Dick had stopped seeing all of his old friends. Partly it was because he was embarrassed about the whole thing and partly because he knew that they thought he'd turned into a jackass since Andy's death.

And part of it was because he had a gut belief that they simply had no idea about what he was going through or what he was dealing with. None of them had buried a single parent, let alone three. None of them had been offered college scholarships when they were still in tenth grade. None of them knew what it was like to stand in the center ring and have thousands of people applauding or to stand on the top step of the podium and have a gold medal hung around their neck while someone told you that you're the best in the country at what you do—even if it was just in an age group.

They had—to be fair— tried to hang out with him and to help him. They would call him, ask him to the movies or a party. Some of them would stop over with movies from Blockbuster and order pizza on a weekend, but it was forced. They'd ask him about gymnastics and ask him to show off his stuff, but he wouldn't because it made him think about Andy and, besides, he was out of shape—well, compared to what he was.

Seeing his reaction, they'd change the subject, but all they could talk about was math class or a party on Saturday or who had gotten laid and Dick didn't care. Some of his friends' fathers had tried as well, seeming to think that one middle aged man was as good as another and he could just plug a different face in and everything would be fine. He tried to be polite, but he resisted their attempts at being good Samaritans and they stopped after a while, too.

Even before Andy died, when his life was relatively normal, back when he was still the most popular kid in the school—or so everyone told him—he'd always felt different than even his closest friends. Maybe it was his circus background or being a gypsy or because he was orphaned and adopted that had set him apart, but now he felt like he had nothing in common with them beyond schoolwork.

After a while, they all stopped trying.

The judge read the sentencing report from the Juvenile Court Counselor for Richard Grayson Porter, Adjudicated Delinquent. The report of Dick's home life and background was taken into consideration—the fact that Dick had never been in any kind of trouble before this and that he was still all too obviously reeling from the third violent death of a parent since he was eight years old. Considering all that and that he had been an honor student and a nationally ranked athlete in addition to holding down part time jobs before the latest tragedy in his life, the judge sentenced him to fourteen months probation, mandatory drug treatment, testing and counseling, monthly visits with his probation officer, a curfew of eight o'clock in the evening, two hundred hours of community service and reimbursement of the State's costs. He could expect his home and his possessions to be searched without warning. In addition, he was ordered to personally apologize to the officer he'd punched during his arrest who was generous enough—or stupid enough to hear the judge tell it—to not press charges. He was allowed to go home with Bonnie.

What this all meant in practical terms was that he had to report to a probation office once a month and explain any infractions he might have committed during the previous four weeks. He had twice-weekly meetings with a drug counselor at which he was expected to test clean. He would spend about fifty hours picking up trash along the highway while wearing an orange prison jumpsuit and under the watch of a cop to pay off the costs of his case. He was told to work off his community service teaching gymnastics to kids at an inner city community center. He couldn't leave the state without the permission of his parole officer. He had to be in his home between the hours of eight PM and seven AM unless he was accompanied by his mother or had the permission of his PO, or both.

If he failed to fulfill any of these he would be sent to Juvenile Detention for a period of time to be determined.

Neither Bonnie nor Dick said anything on the ride home. Dick knew he was lucky and Bonnie was stunned by what her life was now. A part of her still expected to walk in the house to hear Andy asking her if it was time for him to fire up the grill and maybe later they could, you know.

But it didn't happen.

She was a widow and a single mother to a troubled and angry teenager who just had his first serious brush with the law.

He might or might not be addicted to cocaine. He swore he wasn't, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

Later that night Dick knocked on her door then went in to sit on the edge of the now too large bed she was reading in.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I really am." His head was down, his voice low.

"I know that you are." She still had that defeated air about her and it killed Dick to know he was a big part of the reason. He'd wanted to help her, be the rock she could lean on. He wanted her to know she could count on him for anything and he wanted her to know how much he loved her.

He had no idea how to say any of that.

"No more drugs. I promise. And I'll bring my grades up more. They're better than they were and I'll get back on the honor roll. I promise I will."

She looked like she was listening to some kid tell her his puppy had eaten his homework, like she'd heard it all before and knew better but was letting it slide.

"I know you will."

"And—I'll, I mean, I won't be as, you know, I'll be nicer."

"I would like that." She still looked like she was just going through the motions with no conviction.

"I mean it, Mom. I really do."

She smiled slightly. "It's late and it's been a long day and we both have school tomorrow."

He leaned over to kiss her cheek then left her alone.

Later he heard her crying again.

TBC

10/11/04

11


	7. In Another Land Part 7

Title: In Another Land Part Seven

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim.

**In Another Land**

Part Seven 

It had been four months since Dick's court date and so far he was following all the rules. He was in class when he was supposed to be, his grades were better and he was home at curfew time.

He spent Saturdays on a road crew picking up garbage and two days a week after school he went to the community center to teach the gymnastics classes he'd been assigned for his community service fulfillment.

He took a bus to the precinct house after school one day to personally apologize to the officer he'd hit during the arrest and to thank the man for not pressing charges. They ended up talking for almost ninety minutes and shook hands when Dick had to go home. It turned out the cop was a pretty good guy.

His color was better than it was when he was doing the drugs almost every day; he seemed healthier overall than he was in the months after Andy's death. He also seemed determined to make a change and said yes when a couple of his old friends called one night after dinner—the first invitation he'd had in months, asking if he could come out for a pick up game of basketball down at the park. Bonnie drove him over and watched him play with almost his old grace and ability. He was laughing when he scored a basket and he actually looked happy for the first time in too long. She began to think that the worst might be behind them—or at least to begin to hope it might be.

One morning he came down to breakfast wearing one of Andy's old blue button down shirts instead of his usual black tee. It was a small thing, but it was a turning point. It was almost as if her son was back.

Or perhaps he simply had nothing else to wear, but Bonnie chose to see it as a sign.

No, it wasn't all good. There were days when he'd complain about having to do the fucking community service or work along side the highway where his friends could see him. He hated all the homework he had to do after spending hours teaching clumsy kids how to do cartwheels and round offs. He hated his parole officer on sight and it seemed mutual.

The other thing that raised red flags was that he mocked the drug program he'd been enrolled in, saying the counselors were idiots who didn't know what they were talking about. They were clueless do-gooders trying to rack up some kind of brownie points or something. He would leave the sessions angry and refuse to talk to her about them. The reports to Bonnie were that he was uncooperative and antagonistic, bordering on belligerent.

He also refused to have anything to do with the school counselors, insisting they were morons. He ignored every attempt they made to help him catch up in his classes and said he could do it himself.

Though they were only sporadic church goers, Dick now refused to set foot inside of Saint Catherine's. His only comment being, "I think God's done enough for me, thanks."

Bonnie tried to talk to him in depth about how he was feeling and what was really going on, but he simply refused, saying everything was fine and that he could handle it. She shouldn't worry. Besides, as soon as he'd worked off his sentence, he could start working jobs again for money. He'd be able to help her with the expenses and she could relax a little. He swore he would, she should just leave him alone—he was doing just fine.

Sometimes Dick thought that half of the crap the judge had assigned him to do was just to keep him off the streets. There was the fucking highway cleaning, the community service, the drug counseling, school, the curfew which made it hard to get everything done and all of his usual chores on top of most of Andy's—Christ. Okay, he'd broken the stupid law and all, fine, but it wasn't like he'd killed anyone for God's sake.

It was starting to get to him.

Then there was the damn parole officer who assumed that Dick was a jackass spoiled kid doing drugs for kicks because he was bored. Did this jerk ever bother to read case files? Did he ever bother to ask why Dick did the things he had? Hell no. Why would he do a stupid thing like that? Every time they met they came close to butting heads and it was only a threat from the asshole PO that one more smart crack and Dick'd be cooling his heels in Juvie for the night that made him back down.

School sucked, too. His old friends wouldn't give him the time of day and that couple of hours shooting hoops was a fluke. He overheard a couple of the guys talking, not knowing he was close enough to hear. They had been basically forced into it by their parents. "You boys used to be such good friends and that poor thing has enough to deal with without you all walking away from him as well. You call him, do you hear me?" "He's an asshole now." "You know what he's been through with his father being killed the way he was—I heard that when he was brought into the hospital, well, it was just awful." "Yeah, but he's turned into such a jerk." "You know, being a little compassionate wouldn't hurt you." It had been a one shot deal and when he got another call a couple of days later, he made an excuse not to go. A few more calls came in, but after a little while, they stopped.

It was fine. Fuck 'em.

And the way Bonnie looked at him—like she was waiting for him to walk into the kitchen with powder on his nose or a needle hanging out of his arm.

Not that he hadn't been tempted. He was plenty tempted everyday, but so far...

Besides, he had to pass those tests a couple of times a week and more if anyone suspected anything. What a pain in the ass. He could tell that his mother thought it was just a matter of time before it happened and he knew she was just waiting for the fucking shoe to drop.

That might have been the thing that pissed him off the most—the fact that everyone seemed to assume that he was going to fail, that he was going to start using again. They had no idea. None.

Sure he wanted to. It would be the easiest thing in the world to score, but he was determined not to.

Not this time. He used to be able to do anything he wanted—throw a triple? Easy. Get straight A's? No problem. Be the center of a large group of friends? Walk in the park.

He could do that again.

He could and he would, if everyone would just cut him some slack.

He knew that most people had written him off as a screw up, but he'd prove them wrong.

He would.

Christ.

Sometimes late at night, Dick would have a sort of waking dream—maybe it was a sort of day dream—about what his life would have been like if his parents, his real parents, hadn't been killed.

The three of them—hey, maybe his Mom would have had another kid by now and he'd have a brother (he somehow never thought that he'd have a sister) to teach how to fly. They could all hang out with the rest of the performers and the roustabouts and the grips. They would all eat together and travel from city to city—they'd all be friends and they'd all know that was where they were supposed to be and what they were supposed to do. No problems, no questions and no worrying about what they'd do today or where they were supposed to be. They would know. They'd have a matinee or maybe two then, after the dinner break, they'd have an evening show. After that they'd hang out with the others for a while, just shooting the shit, then go back to their trailer together—it would have been great. It was what he'd been born to do and—God—he missed it.

But then he'd hear the alarm go off and be confused for a few seconds before he remembered that wasn't what he was living anymore. He would open his eyes and see his small room and he'd remember.

He'd get up and shower and go through the motions again.

So most days would go by with almost no contact between Dick and anyone in the school beyond the most basic exchanges until one morning about eight months after the arrest.

"Hey, Grayson, did you get the math homework last night?"

It was Christian, one of his former friends and they were both in the library for study hall. He nodded and kept reading, assuming that it was just another dig.

"Well, can I look at it? I got lost on the fourth problem."

Dick gave him a suspicious look. "You want to see my work? What the fuck for?"

"Because you're the best math student in the class."

Doubtful, and half expecting that he wouldn't get it back; he slid the sheet across the table.

"What did you do here?" Christian was staring at the paper.

"It's the tangent, not the radius. You have to substitute—yeah, right. You have to make that change and that gives you the answer."

"What about in the seventh problem? It's different..."

"It's just the reverse."

He was nodding; he got it now that he could see what Dick had done in the assignment. He handed Dick back his work. "...Why did you do it? Shit, you were the smartest kid in the school. Why did you screw up so bad? I mean, I know about your Dad and all, but—shit, you were the one everyone wanted to be. Fuck me, you were who I wanted to be." It was said softly, the way a friend would ask another friend and Dick responded to a degree.

"...Pain management, I guess. It's, when Andy was killed...it was..." He trailed off.

"It was what?"

"He was rushing home to see me and..."

"And so it was your fault?"

Dick half shrugged, half nodded.

"That's bullshit, man. He got killed because some guy was over the line, you didn't have anything to do with that." Dick was staring at the math paper. "Hey, Dick—you're tougher than this. You can do anything—God, you amazed me."

He heard a half snort of disbelief from Dick.

"No, I mean it, dude. You were high honor roll, you worked like two jobs and you still won that hot shit gymnastics meet. You were ranked, what? Number one in the country for our age? That's impressive stuff."

"Christian...it's, I'm not—I mean, that was last year."

"Yeah, I know, but we were really good friends, y'know? I—miss hanging out with you."

Dick was looking at Christian, trying to gauge what he'd just said. There were a few beats. "I miss a lot of things."

"Call me, okay? And I'll call you."

The bell for the next period sounded but Dick nodded, "Okay" before they went to their next classes.

"Christian? Was that Dick leaving just now?"

"We're working on a project for history."

"When's it due?"

"Monday. Why?"

"I'd rather you didn't spend time with him if you can avoid it."

"We're friends, Mom."

"I know that, but I think that it would be better if you spent time with your other friends."

"He's a bad influence?"

"...I think you can do better."

"But..."

"I don't want you getting sucked into his problems."

"Mom..."

"I mean it. I want you to stay away from him."

He had lost most of his school friends because he'd gotten the reputation of being 'bad' and Dick was tired of being alone. He tried to seize the olive branch he'd been handed by Christian. They talked in school now and sometimes they did things together.

A couple of weeks after they reconnected, Dick dialed Christian's number but was told he couldn't talk because he had to finish his homework. The next day in school Dick tried again in study hall, but he said he had to work on his French assignment.

One last effort, another call, was again rebuffed and he stopped trying.

Another six months went by like this. He spent all his free time alone; usually reading in his room and that seemed to help his grades. The community service hours were fulfilled as well as the work program, thank God. He still had the fucking drug counseling and the fucking parole officer to deal with, but they were minor annoyances he could largely ignore.

He was now sixteen and the sentence would be finished with soon.

The problems weren't solved, though, just waiting to surface.

One night Dick was out after eight, not coming in until eight thirty. Bonnie told him he couldn't do this, that he was in violation of the judge's orders. He shrugged and pushed past her up to his room. His attitude was getting bad again and she was afraid that one day soon he'd fail one of his drug tests. She wasn't sure what happened to ruin his determination to turn himself around, but something had occurred—or maybe it was just the accumulation of everything. She was afraid that he was like a pressure cooker and he was about to explode. Desperate to help him, she didn't know how anymore, berating herself for being a bad parent and accomplishing nothing she could see which was useful to either of them.

Two weeks after that he was out in the backyard around one in the morning, sitting in the old Adirondack chair with one of Andy's old sweaters around him when he heard the soft rustle of fabric and footsteps behind him. "I'm not out, Mom, I'm just in the yard."

"I think that technically you're supposed to be inside after eight." Bonnie sat in the chair next to him, willing him to talk to her. "Honey, it's...Are there problems?"

"It's fine."

"...I heard from the counselor this afternoon. He said you were almost an hour late."

"The bus was messed up—there's construction by the bridge. I told him that."

"He told me that he thinks you may still be struggling with everything that's happened this last year."

No shit. "I'm fine, Mom, I was just late. I tested clean, didn't I?"

"You know how proud I am of you for that."

Of course she was. "Mom, I'm fine. I'll just be glad when this is over."

They both would be.

"He's afraid that you may start using again."

"I'm not."

Maybe. There were ways around the testing and they all knew that. But she thought he'd been trying so hard.

"The fourteen months will be up in a few weeks. Then we'll be back to normal—you can go back to your own schedule and you know Sergei wants you back in the gym, even if it's just to teach the younger kids. Alfred called to know when you'll be able to go back there to help out. You'll have college to think about and..."

"Can we not talk about this right now, please?"

"Dick, honey..."

"I know you're worried about me, but I'm alright. My grades are fine and I'm not using. I won't even have a record when this is over—everything's fine." There was silence for a couple of minutes then, "...I miss Dad. I wish...you know. I wish none of this had happened."

So did Bonnie. She hadn't told him that they were probably going to have to sell the house. She avoided saying anything while they were in the middle of everything and she tried desperately to hold onto it to give Dick some small degree of stability but she knew that it would have to go on the market in the next few months. Dick would probably have to change schools for his senior year and she was afraid of his reaction. Of course, it might end up being for the best; maybe it would give him a chance for a new start where his background wasn't public knowledge.

She knew that Mr. Wayne told her to call if she needed anything, but she simply couldn't. The man was a virtual stranger and he'd done enough—more than enough when you came down to it. Besides, someone in his position must have people coming up to him every day with their hands out.

She simply couldn't ask him for help.

Three weeks later Dick was discharged from the court ordered probation, given a clean bill of health from the drug center, given a 'satisfactory' rating from his PO and declared done with his punishment. His debt to society was paid in full. He had agreed to help Sergei with the beginners' classes in exchange for advanced coaching and he was to start helping out back at Wayne Manor the next weekend. He and his mother celebrated by going out to dinner at the decent Italian restaurant in town where, by coincidence, a couple of his old friends were having a birthday dinner for Christian. He, of course, hadn't been invited and after perfunctory greetings, they ignored each other.

Unknown to Bonnie, later that night Dick slipped out around midnight.

Two days later Bonnie found a vial of cocaine in his underwear drawer.

TBC

9


	8. In Another Land Part 8

Title: In Another Land Part Eight

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim.

Note: Now, I did research both cocaine addiction and various treatment facilities by going on line and asking friends who are ER nurses and deal with such thing, but I'm neither an addict, recovering or otherwise, nor a medical person. I was told, by several people who work with such things daily, that the failure rate for beating cocaine addiction is somewhere around 85, but it can be done. The details are as close as I could get them without having been through it myself, and any mistakes are entirely mine. Thanks to both Cheryl and Gabe for the medical help.

And I promise that things do get a bit more cheerful eventually.

**In Another Land**

Part Eight 

Dick was in Sergei's gym. He'd been back for almost two months now, he taught the girls up to the twelve and thirteen-year-olds through the level eight classes and he helped with all the boys' classes at all levels. It was after four on a Saturday and he was just finished with his class. There was a meet next week with a rival gymnastics academy and the girls were trying to work out the kinks in their routines.

They all had crushes on Dick. So did a few of the mothers, all finding him not only too cute for words, but better at the moves than anyone else in the place, including Sergei. Combining that with his patience and his humor and he was the subject of a lot of giggles and blushes.

Yes, they'd heard about his recent troubles, but after all—with all that poor boy had been through. He was still a wonder with the girls though, and that was the truth. He even still mowed lawns and things to help his poor mother with some of the bills. He was a darling, really.

Amanda, one of the ten-year-olds with a major crush, had just handed him an invitation to her birthday party next week. He thanked her and said it sounded like fun, but he had to work. Kissing her on the cheek, he wished her a happy birthday and smiled at the blush and the giggles from her friends across the room.

When they were all gone and he had the place to himself, Dick chalked up his hands and started on the high bar. No spotter, no judge, no audience, no groupies. Not really doing any set routine, just doing one skill after another, the giant swings melting into stalters and release moves which he caught easily, repeating, moving, turning, reversing with one hand then two then back to one hand again. Swinging around and around, over and under, feeling the air on his body and the friction on his hands, finally gaining the speed and momentum to try the dismount, the quad.

He used to be able to do it so easily back at Haley's. It was fun; he'd get the speed of the swing to throw him out and up, he'd tuck as tightly as he could and spin fast, straighten out and his father's hands would always be there. Dad would smile down at him, tell him how good that was and he'd be back on the platform, landing like nothing.

He made the giant swings around the high bar, over and over, gaining the speed. Almost at the top, with his feet pointing at the ceiling he released, tucked his now longer legs as tight as he could and spun, eyes closed against the blur. Judging where he was he straightened out, landed, floor shaking with the drop, arms raised and stumbled, landing hard on his knees, the force driving him forward onto all fours.

"Fuck."

"You shouldn't try that without extra mats. You know better than that."

"I'm fine, Sergei." He turned over so he was just sitting where he'd landed. Sergei came over to join him.

"The students like you. You work well with them."

Dick looked at him. This wasn't like Sergei, he never offered compliments. In fact, Dick had occasionally wondered if he was a little jealous that the kids liked him better. He just shrugged. "I like most of them, too."

"Which is why I'm sorry that I have to let you go." He pulled something out of his pocket, showing it to Dick, but not handing it over. It was a small vial of coke. "I don't want this in my gym. If you bring it in here, I don't want you here. You go. Now, please."

"Sergei..."

"When you stop this, you come back. Until then, you stay away." Sergei stood up and walked into his office, closing the door. Having no real choice, Dick gathered his things, pulled his jeans on over his shorts and left.

Walking the two miles home, Dick was angry. Who the fuck was Sergei to tell him what he could and couldn't do? He was still the best gymnast in the state, damnit, no matter what anyone said. He almost landed a Goddamned quad this afternoon and there were only three people in the world who could do that, including him, and the other two were in the old eastern block and neither of them were gymnasts—they were circus performers. And he was better with the younger kids than Sergei was, too. They liked him better; they worked better for him, trained harder because they wanted to please Dick, not because they were afraid of Sergei's fucking insults with his twenty-five year old medal.

No one gave a rat's ass. That was the problem. He'd been through a lot, more than anyone he knew and no one ever cut him any slack. His parents were murdered in front of him, his adoptive father died, his mother was in shock for—hell, she was still in shock about it. He'd been an honor student, he'd won the Junior Championship his first attempt and all anyone ever saw were the problems, never the good stuff. His grades were back up again, he was working, making money again—or he had been until half an hour ago.

So he still used now and then. Christ. Big deal.

It wasn't like he couldn't stop whenever he wanted.

He could.

Anytime.

He'd been clean the whole time he was waiting out his sentence—and wasn't that a pain in the ass. It wasn't like he'd killed anyone...

...Except Andy.

He'd killed Andy.

If Andy hadn't been hurrying home to get to the stupid party, he might have seen the truck in time, he might not have been on the road then, and he might have—not been killed.

Now Bonnie was screwed. Left with no husband, not enough money and—him.

Walking into the house, he found the note on the counter. Bonnie was out doing errands, would he please put the chicken in the oven at five?

He went up to his room, intending to shower since he left the gym without taking the time, what with being thrown out and fired and all. He probably reeked, in fact. He toed off his sneakers, took his shirt off, shucked his jeans and was about to go across the hall to the bathroom when he thought—well, no, actually he didn't think. He got the glass vial from between his mattress and bedsprings, opened the top, took a couple of snorts and then took a couple more.

Oh, what the hell.

He finished the bottle and felt better than he had all day. Come to think of it he felt great.

The shower would feel great—better than great. It would feel fabulous, terrific, amazing, all that hot water, all that steam and the soap—that would smell so damn good and he'd be clean and...

He stepped into the spray and, Jesus, it felt incredible. It was hitting the top of his head, running down his face and then down his back. He could feel it streaming down his chest, down past his crotch, which was also feeling pretty good, now that he thought about it. It was running in streams and ripples down his legs, swirling around his feet, splashing, dripping. The drops were hanging off his nose, forming patterns on his arms and his hands that he would change with a flick of his wrists.

He'd never felt so good in his life.

Never.

Screw Sergei.

Screw all those jackasses he used to hang around with who were now too damn good to be seen with him.

The water, God the water felt good. He'd never known how damn good a shower could feel before, he'd just never noticed it—it was astonishing.

Losers. All the people he used to spend time with, all the time he wasted in a gym and for what? So that he could have some total stranger hang some stupid medal around his neck? And then what? He'd bring it home and put it in some drawer because it was rude or uncool to show it to anyone because that would be bragging. Wouldn't want that, now.

He loved this shower, in fact, he never really wanted to get out of the shower, but he couldn't just stand here. He needed to move, to run or do back flips or climb a tree like he used to do when he was like ten years old.

He didn't want to just stand here, he wanted to—something. He wanted to...

He turned off the water, pushed open the glass door and took the towel off the hook, starting to dry himself off but too impatient to bother. He had to go, he had to move. Back in his room, naked and still dripping wet he needed to get some clean clothes on so he could get outside to run.

His heart was pounding, he was hot, and his hands were trembling a little—like he had the shakes or something.

He pulled on a clean pair of sweats and was looking for a tee shirt; opening a drawer, when he pulled a little too hard and the thing fell out of its tracks, landing on his bare foot.

"Mother fucker."

Grabbing the drawer by the knob he threw it across the small room. It hit the wall, spilling clothes and making a hole in the plasterboard.

He was breathing hard, sweating and he was hot, like he was running a fever. His heart—he could feel it beating too hard and too fast and he was shaking all over. Shit.

"Dick?"

What was he doing? Getting dressed, of course. Right.

"Dick? Honey, did something fall? Are you alright?"

This wasn't good. He stood entranced as he saw his legs start to shake and then his arms.

"Dick? Oh my God." Bonnie grabbed the handset from his phone, punching in 911. "It's my son, I need an ambulance...I think he's overdosed...probably cocaine...please...he's having a convulsion."

Dick was administered Valium to calm him and counteract the paranoia. It helped slow his heart rate and lower his blood pressure. He was given Tylenol for the fever and a cooling blanket was wrapped around him. When he became delirious he had to be restrained. He began vomiting.

A cardiologist was brought in to make sure he was in good hands in case he went into cardiac arrest.

Bonnie sat in the small ER cubicle, out of the way and hoping—just hoping.

After seven hours he was admitted as an in-patient and removed to a semi-private room.

"Mrs. Porter? I'm Dr. Penn; I'm on staff here in the substance abuse clinic. You are aware that Richard is a cocaine abuser, aren't you?"

She nodded. "He was arrested for a drug buy almost a year and a half ago, but he's been clean since then. I mean, until just recently. He was passing the tests twice a week all that time and—he was doing so well."

"The failure rate for kicking coke is over eighty percent, Mrs. Porter, you have to understand that it may take a number of tries before it takes and, to be honest, he may never kick it."

"But he can beat it, can't he? It's possible, isn't it? He's so strong when he wants to be and he's..."

"If he wants to, that will help certainly, but there aren't any guarantees. You need to realize that. I think the best thing, as soon as he's up to it, would be a residential program. I can explain several of the better ones to you."

They spoke for an hour while Dick slept next to them. At the end of the talk Bonnie had made her decision. No matter what it cost, she'd send Dick to the best rehab she could find. Penn recommended Hazelton and after doing some checking, she agreed. Her insurance wouldn't cover it and there was little money available for what Hazelton termed 'scholarships'. After the initial evaluation, the preliminary thoughts were that he should expect to be admitted to their Adolescent and Young Adult treatment program in Center City, Minnesota, and should plan on being there at least two months. He would keep up with his academics—as did all the school aged patients—by attending tutorials run by the local school system. The costs would run about twenty five thousand a month, not including transportation.

Dick, ashamed at what had happened, both with the OD and with being fired by Sergei, agreed to any treatment his mother and doctors thought would have a chance of being successful.

He was released from the local hospital the next week after the worst of the withdrawal symptoms have eased a bit—the nausea, the irritability, the mood swings and lack of appetite and boarded a plane to Minnesota that evening. Bonnie went with him, taking two personal days from her job to do so.

They were met at the airport by a representative from Hazelton, greeted, and he and his mother were taken to the fifteen-acre lakeside campus. The ages of the patients ran from fourteen to twenty-six. Dick would share a room. Bonnie was given a chance to look around, then politely and firmly informed that they would take it from here.

Dick hugged her, close to tears, promising that he'd make a success of it and she wasn't to worry about him. He'd be home soon and he'd be better, she'd see. She would, she'd be proud of him.

She was driven back to the airport for her return flight.

For the next two months she had little contact with her son, but the reports she received were good. He was making a real effort and the progress was encouraging.

She was falling behind on the house payments and she sold the pickup truck Andy had used. The idea was to save it for Dick when he got his license in a few months, but the seven thousand dollars she got was needed. She knew there was no choice, but she'd been putting it off as long as she could and then made another decision.

Calling a neighbor who worked for one of the local realtors, she listed the house. In the current market and with the location they had, it was put on the market for three-fifty—even with the kitchen in the shape it was and those old bathrooms. With any luck they'd get something close to her asking price. Bonnie knew that the area they lived in was too expensive for them to consider staying in now and set about looking for a new place twenty or thirty miles away from the school she worked for. It would mean Dick would have to change schools in his senior year—assuming he was ready to go back to school in the fall, but it simply couldn't be helped. In fact, it might be for the best for him to make a new start.

She didn't expect the call she received the second day after the place was put on the market.

"Bon? Sweetie? You're not going to believe the offer I just got not five minutes ago. You're simply not going to believe it!"

"Annie?"

"A lawyer called from one of those big development companies that are always looking for properties in the area—you know you have that big back yard and those woods? Well since they're also putting in bids for the houses on both sides of you, they think they might be able to do something with it all and they're offering three-twenty-five, but the thing is—you're not going to believe this—the thing is the man said since they're not ready to build for at least two years, if you wanted, you could stay in the house and pay rent. In fact, he said it would be six hundred dollars a month, utilities included because they want someone there to keep an eye on the place for them so no vandals or squatters get in. Can you believe it?"

"Who are these people? Are they crazy? They could get three times that much."

"I know, but they don't seem to care, they just want the place to be taken care of for now—doesn't it sound perfect? You wouldn't have to move yet and Dick can finish school—it's just perfect!"

"Well, I...What's the name of the company? Are they anyone we know?"

"It's something named 'Tri-County Development Corporation'. I don't know, I've never heard of them, but they check out just fine—a triple-A rating across the board. Do you want to think about it? I'm telling you, though, it's the best offer you'll be getting, hon."

"I, ah—yes, take it, but make double sure about being able to stay and the rental price, will you? That sounds too good to be true."

"I'll get it in writing and dot all the i's, sweetie. You know me."

Three months later the sale of the house had it's closing. Nothing would change, in a practical sense, for a while. She and Dick could stay in the house with all their belongings for another two years.

While she was waiting out the house closing and amid all the bureaucracy that entailed, Dick was released from Hazelton. She had flown to Minnesota to get him and the meetings with the counselors and doctors were encouraging. He was looking better, his attitude seemed to be good and he appeared determined to make her proud and to prove that he'd turned a corner. He told her that as soon as they got home he wanted to talk to Sergei about starting at the gym again and when she asked—as tactfully as she could—if he wanted to think about changing schools, he said there was no reason; enough of the kids at school had been through something like it to make it a non event when one returned to class. He might as well stay where he was.

A couple of months after he got back home he happened to see a notation in the checkbook for six hundred dollars for Tri-County Dev. Corp. Wondering what that was, he looked in the phone book, but couldn't find a local listing. Next he went on-line and bingo.

"Tri-County Development Corporation, a division of Wayne Enterprises" 

Dick just shook his head. Christ.

In the executive suites of Wayne Corp, Lucius Fox and his boss were having one of their countless meetings. "I still don't understand why you're wasting money on a couple of small residential properties like this—what on earth are you thinking about doing with them? The Manor getting too big for you?"

Bruce didn't crack a smile. "I want the zoning board's permission to put a drug treatment facility there. There's a local need and it's not being filled."

"...Why the interest?"

"Why not?"

That was all the answer he'd get and he knew it. Bruce was a cold bastard and there was no way around it. "Alright, fine. I'll get legal started on it. It's going to take a while, though. You know there's always neighborhood resistance to something like this."

Bruce gave him one of his looks. "Get it passed. I want to break ground in two years."

When Lucius went back to his own office, Bruce pulled the file out of his briefcase again. Leslie had been helpful in getting the records sent over and he'd be sure to thank her. Maybe a new ultra sound machine would be appropriate. Both the medical doctors and the psychologists at Hazelton had given Dick a clean bill of heath and a good prognosis, but with the usual warnings. The kid needed his self-esteem built up. He needed some successes and probably a few new friends—the right kind of friends.

Maybe going back to the gym was the way. Maybe.

Maybe there was a different direction that might work.

TBC

10/13/04

10


	9. In Another Land Part 9

Title: In Another Land Part Three

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim.

**In Another Land**

Part Nine

Dick was sixteen now, a six-footer and a senior in high school. Young for his class, yes, but he had always been ahead of the other kids—there was a reason why his grades were as good as they usually were. He really was that smart.

Hazelton had happened over part of summer break and after returning home he'd laid low, regrouping and trying to just get himself settled. He mowed the usual lawns and did the usual pickup jobs around the neighborhood, but other than that he basically just read a lot of books and taken long walks and bike rides.

And he stayed clean.

He was serious about it this time. Hazelton had taken his bullshit about being able to stop anytime he wanted and thrown it back in his face with some facts he didn't like hearing but which, in the end, were accepted as an ugly truth he'd have to learn to live with, one way or another. Or not live with it, if he kept it up.

Being a teacher, his mother had most of the summer off to be with him and they spent a lot of time trying to reconnect with one another. He always felt tremendous guilt about the problems and worry he'd caused her and that guilt would never completely go away, but they could talk honestly now, and that was huge compared to what they'd just been through.

Not knowing what reception he'd get, he avoided his old friends, the ones he let fall away the last couple of years but he missed them and he missed the companionship they'd had, the easy camaraderie. He tried to steel himself to being alone this year until he built it up enough in his mind so that it was what he expected and could project the façade of not caring.

He was wrong.

The transition back to the daily school grind was surprisingly easy—much more so than his bravado would have led anyone to think. He had been nervous, frightened to death.

The first morning of classes he walked back in through the front doors and saw a group of his old friends standing in the hallway, the ones who had shunned him and cut him off a year and two years ago—the ones he needed to be there for him—when he saw them give him a long silent look, he thought it would be a case of same old, same old.

Then Christian had nodded and said, "How you doin', Dick? You okay now?"

"Yeah, I'm good. How 'bout you?"

"Right as rain. You hear we're starting Phys Ed with a gymnastics unit today?"

"No shit?"

"None. See you there." Dick started past the others when Phil touched his arm. "Good to see you back, man." He smiled and started away. "Hey, what lunch do you have this year?"

"Second."

"See you there."

No one said anything about his problems, other than to welcome him back or tell him he was looking better than the last time they'd seen him and it was a good thing. The girls, especially the ones who might not have really noticed him too much a couple of years ago, suddenly knew what the fuss about Dick Grayson was for. He was smart, tall, built and had that black hair and those blue eyes that could make your heart stop. And that smile—God, that smile. Couple all that with his back story of not only being one of the top gymnasts in the country and being an orphan who helped his mother pay the bills—and that whole thing about the slide into drugs after his second father's death and you had a package that made the young ladies either want to mother him or bed him, or both—maybe at the same time.

If he managed to keep it together, this should be a good year.

Maybe.

In his first class of the first day of his senior year the teacher taking the role got to his name, "Porter? Good to see you back, Dick." A few of the kids started clapping, the rest of the class joined in and he knew it would probably be alright.

Probably.

He went back to the gym a few days after his return from Hazelton in mid-August and Sergei threw his arms around him, welcoming him like a long lost son. That first day back, after the initial greeting, Sergei left him alone in the empty gym to go at his own pace. Starting with a gentle warm up consisting mostly of some yoga stretching, he moved up to a jog around the large room for half an hour—just a nice slow pace designed to reacquaint his muscles with the idea of doing something other than sitting and walking and pushing a lawn mower.

From there he started some floor moves, nothing too strenuous, just a dozen or so tumbling passes which built as he got more and more into it and some connecting moves—really just more of the warm-up, really.

Then he went over to his gym bag—Sergei was watching him through the window in his office while pretending to do paperwork—and pulled something out. Worried about what it might be, Sergei started to get up but it was just a set of grips. Dick got them on, adjusted the fit and chalked up.

High bar, always his favorite and the closest to the trapeze he could get in gymnastics. He stood under the bar for a moment, centering himself, picturing the moves. Jumping up he began with the precise movements he'd been practicing almost all his life. His muscles remembered how to move, remembered the timing and the subtle shifts of balance and speed that made his movements exceptional to watch. Other gymnasts performed tricks and skills they'd learned, Dick moved as though he was born to it naturally, the movements flowing from one to another almost organically.

The final set of giant swings were designed to give him the momentum and the speed, the height, he released, tucked and turned, landing the triple without a bobble.

In two weeks, he promised himself, he'd have his quad back—and he'd stick it. Most coaches thought he was too tall, inches taller than the other top men, but he could still pull the moves. He could and he'd prove it. He was over sixteen now, according to the rules he would compete with the senior men—he'd compete and he'd win. He would.

Sergei saw the stuck dismount; saw the look on Dick's face. "You think you'll be ready for the Regional meet after the New Year? You have your routines set by then? You compete against the senior men, now—you know that. You're too old for the juniors and you waste your time there anyway. You be ready?"

God, training for a senior meet as an elite? Four hours a day minimum in the gym on top of school and his regular chores and helping Bonnie and...

"I don't know, it's a lot of training and I really have to work in school this year and..."

"Every year I have this same talk with you. You can be the best in the world if you try—you can be second or third if you don't try as hard. Is a waste for you not to go. You go, you win, you get scholarship and your mother doesn't have to pay for your school—you are going to university, no?"

"I don't know. I'd like to, sure, but—there's a lot going on now. Look, Sergei, can I let you know in a few days or something?"

"You let me know, but you still have a class to teach in twenty minutes. The level five girls."

"I'm working here again?"

"You're working here again."

"Hey, Sergei? If I compete, I'd like to use my old name. Can I register under Grayson? I think my parents would have liked that."

In early October Dick was studying in the school library when Phil sat next to him. "You coming to Sarah's party on Saturday?"

Crap, something else he hadn't been invited to. "I wasn't planning on it."

"She wants you there, man, she likes you."

Which is why she didn't say anything to him. Right. "I've got things to do."

"Hey, Dick, look—she wants you there. We all want you there, okay? It's not a set up or anything like that. We all know the shit you've been through and we just want you there, alright? Come to her house, around eight?"

Long shot at best. "I'll see, maybe."

Around seven thirty on Saturday Christian stopped over at Dick's house on his way to Sarah's. Phil had told him the truth, the group really did want him there. "You ready? C'mon."

"I'm gonna pass..."

"The hell you are. Get your ass off that couch and put your shoes on. You're going to the fucking party."

Bonnie was in the kitchen, hearing what they were saying and came to the door. "Why don't you go? You haven't been out with your old friends in months—you'll have a good time."

He looked at her doubtfully. "I'm pretty tired and..." And he was scared to death.

"Honey—go to the party. Christian was nice enough to come all the way over here to get you and you know you'll have fun." She gave him a smile. "Go on." Besides, she knew these kids. They were straight and while she knew that there'd probably be some drinking, she doubted that there would be hard drugs—not that she wanted him drinking, either.

Resigned, Dick went up to his room to get a clean shirt and find his sneakers. While he was gone Bonnie took a moment, "Christian? Thank you for coming over to get him, my Lord, he hasn't been out just for fun in so long—you'll make sure nothing bad happens, won't you?" He started to say something. "You know what I mean. Please? Call me if ..." She saw the look on his face. "What am I saying? You know better than to do any of those things. Just—thank you."

When they walked into the party, Sarah took Dick's hand and led him to the momentarily empty kitchen. "Christian told me that he was going to make you come here tonight but it's okay. Everyone really wanted you here and, God, don't worry about anything, alright?"

This was wearing thin. "I'm not a complete basket case, okay? I think I can handle this—back off." It came out sharper than he'd intended and he was immediately contrite. "Sorry—it's just that everyone has been treating me with kid gloves, they're all afraid to talk to me or say the wrong thing because I might go find a dealer. It's just me, alright? And I'm fine."

She hugged him in response and he hugged her back. In fact she was one of the dozens of girls in the school with a crush on Dick and she was actually glad to see him walk through her door. He was so brave, after everything that had happened and she'd love to...she'd love to, well, everything.

"Jesus, get a room, will you?"

So much for mood, they broke apart. Dick simply went back out to the living room where most of the others were, found himself a place on the large recliner and made himself comfortable, glass of ginger ale in hand. Sarah followed a few minutes later and took the space at the end down by his feet, using his legs as armrests. Taking his shoes off, he used his toes to tickle her and they went back and forth for a while until she had moved up against him to simply use him as a full body support, his arms around her and hers resting on top of his.

The party—well, really more just a bunch of kids hanging out and watching movies and eating junk food and talking than an actual party—went on for a couple of hours. Sarah and Dick just sort of lay there, talking and making comments about the film, generally being left pretty much alone by the other—other from the looks and asides which they mostly ignored. After his second soda Dick made his way to the bathroom, only slightly surprised when Alex walked in with him.

"I was wondering when you were going to make your move."

Shit, he didn't need this. "Excuse me?"

Alex took the small vial out of his pocket. "C'mon. I'll share. You can pay me back in kind next time."

"No, thanks."

"C'mon, Dick, I don't mind—help yourself."

"I just wanted to take a leak, you mind leaving?

"Since when do you turn down a high?"

Christ. Idiot. "Since I got busted twice and spent over two months in rehab—fuck off, Alex."

"You're telling me you're really clean? Bullshit." Jesus. Dick took the vial of coke, tossed it in the toilet and flushed. "You Asshole! You owe me—that was mine, jackass, you owe me."

"Yeah, whatever. I'd like a little privacy if you don't mind." When he left the bathroom, Dick noticed Alex going out the front door—looking extremely pissed.

Like he cared.

"Hey, I hear that you're doing gymnastics again." Vanessa was next to him. She was the current captain of the cheerleading squad at school and they really sucked; in fact they were famous for it. "My brother, Stevie? You probably know him, he's like twelve?" Yes, Dick knew him and had him in a couple of his level four boys classes three times a week. The kid couldn't walk across he room without tripping. "He says you're back at Sergei's gym and the kids all watch you. I guess Sergei says you're pretty good."

He shrugged. He never knew what to say to things like that and this wasn't what he wanted to be dealing with, anyway.

"I was thinking that maybe you could help the cheerleaders with some of our routines—you could really teach us a lot and we could totally use the help. Do you think maybe?"

"Yeah, well, thanks, but I don't have much time right now. Maybe in the spring or something if that's alright. I'm still catching up with things, you know?"

She actually went into a pout and Dick, completely not in the mood anymore to be at a party, caught Christian's eye. "I've gotta be going, see you in school on Monday."

"I'll go with you."

"It's three blocks. I'm fine—and I'm not going to get high on the way home."

"I didn't say you were."

Dick nodded, not knowing what else to say. "Yeah, whatever. Look, I've got to get to the gym early tomorrow. I'll see you Monday. And Christian? Thanks."

"Hey, that's what friends are for, man."

Walking home, Dick started out still angry about the assumptions that he'd be looking for a high and as the couple of blocks passed it grew. He was cutting through the empty lot when he heard the voice behind him.

"You want to do something useful?"

It was a dark night and there were no street lamps here. His instinct kicked in, the one about the best defense being a good offense. "What kind of useful and who the fuck are you?"

Batman stepped into a brighter area of dark, light enough to see whom he was talking to. "Tell me who your dealers were and I'll stop them."

This was not who he expected to see. This man wasn't real; he was a myth, an urban legend. That's what everyone said, anyway. Well, maybe everyone was wrong. He, somehow, managed to keep his composure and make his vice sound normal. "Why do I care? You gonna bust me again if I don't?"

The Bat just stared at him, but it was enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Tell me who they are and I'll stop them. Don't tell me and I'll stop them anyway, it will just take a little longer."

Shit, and if they find out who squealed, he'd have his legs broken or worse. These were not nice people and young or old, it didn't make any difference, they'd screw him over.

"That wouldn't be a good idea, now would it? They'd go after my mother to get at me." Of course, there was no telling what the Bat would do, either.

Another glare and silence while he was forced to think about who and what he was protecting. "I'll see to it that nothing happens to you. Give me the names and you'll both be fine. You have my word on that."

The voice was familiar, so was the build and the way he carried himself. Even what he could see of the jaw line reminded Dick of someone. "What about me?"

"No one will hurt you. I promise that."

That was it. That phrase, that tone of voice, that inflection. That was what Bruce Wayne had said the first night he'd let Dick stay at his ridiculous house. "No one will hurt you, I promise that." He didn't remember too much from that week, but he remembered that. In fact, he'd never forgotten it.

It clicked. Jesus, Bruce Wayne was...here. There was no other possibility. None. He knew it as much as he knew the sun would rise in the morning.

Christ.

"Sally Hardin. She lives over on York, the basement apartment. She and her brother supply to Crest Hill and most of the schools in Westchester."

No reaction, no acknowledgement. "You stay clean, you hear me? You don't, you'll answer to me." He was gone, just like any good urban legend would disappear into thin air.

Dick made it home a few minutes later, assuring his mother that he'd had a good time and no—don't worry, he hadn't taken anything stronger than soda. In fact, she was welcomed to test him if she wanted, no problem.

He didn't sleep that night.

Bruce Wayne was Batman. He was sure of it. Positive. Multi-billionaire Bruce Wayne, the head of an international corporation was a vigilante who swung from ropes and busted bad guys for a hobby. Bruce Wayne, his adoptive family's personal Santa Claus and money tree for the town was secretly a guy who dressed up like a six foot something bat and snuck around the shadows at night.

Suddenly Dick's being farmed out to another foster family made sense—how the hell would Wayne—okay, Batman, have been able to cope with a kid around the place? And Alfred, shit, Alfred must be Wayne's eyes and ears for stuff that Wayne would be beyond noticing. Alfred was his contact with the locals and the little people. Alfred must have been how Wayne had found out about them needing money for gymnastics and Andy needing the work and that Dick was having problems with drugs—and how the shrink lowered her prices and Sergei ended up in town and God knew what all else.

Okay, he sort of knew it had to be Alfred or someone telling Wayne about all that stuff, but shit—this was a whole different ball game.

And his company had bought the house so they could stay in it and that gave Bonnie the money to pay for his rehab.

Jesus.

Bruce Fucking Wayne was Batman.

TBC

10/14/04

10


	10. In Another Land Part 10

Title: In Another Land Part Ten

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim.

**In Another Land**

Part Ten 

It was strange knowing that Bruce Wayne was the Bat when probably almost no one else knew. And that Wayne didn't know he knew made it even more odd.

It was a big secret, one of the biggest in fact, and he'd figured it out. And if he knew then who else knew? Somebody had to. They must.

That old guy, Alfred? Sure, he had to know.

The Chief of Police in town? Maybe, but probably not. Crest Hill was too small for someone like Batman to let a small town cop in on the deep dark.

Besides, Batman worked out of Gotham—Wayne Enterprises had its headquarters there. Well, sure, that would make sense. So the Chief of Police in Gotham might know. Maybe. And what about the other heroes? Superman? Wonder Woman?—now she was hot. And the whole Justice League, wasn't Batman a member, or so the rumor went? They would probably all know who he was.

What about that kid group, the Teen Titans that had been in the news on and off the last couple of years? They might know something because some of them had connections to the Justice Leaguers. Sure, some of them might know something.

God, this was weird. Knowing was bizarre and it might mean his ass if anyone found out that he knew this. No writing this in his journal or telling his shrink, that was for damn sure. And how was he going to walk into Wayne's place on Saturday to help out the old guy and not let on? No one on the planet could keep that straight a face, no one. Impossible.

And when Wayne found out that he knew—which he would—then what would happen?

Would he and Bonnie be thrown out of the house to get rid of them? Would they be given the house to shut them up? Maybe they'd be offered whatever the super hero equivalent to the witness protection program was to make sure no one else ever found out. Maybe they'd be moved to Fiji or Atlantis or the moon.

Maybe they'd just be killed to really make sure they never talked to anyone about it.

"Dick? Honey? You need to get moving if you're going to the gym this morning." Bonnie knocked lightly at his door, opening it and standing there looking at him on his bed. "I'm glad you had a good time at the party."

"It was fine."

"You were home early, everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Mom. I'm good." This was lame; he had to talk to her about something. He couldn't talk to her about this. "It was okay, I was just tired from school and the gym all day so I decided to come home, that's all."

She came over and sat on the bed. "Well, who was there? Any of your friends?"

He nodded. Small talk, good. He could do small talk. "The usual; Christian, Phil, Sarah, a few others. You know, the usual."

"Did something happen? You seem a—little tense. There weren't any, you know, there weren't any drugs there, were there?"

"I didn't have any, don't worry."

"Dick...?"

"I was offered some coke and I turned it down, no big deal."

"...No big deal? My God..."

"I told you that I turned it down, alright? Do you want to test me again?" He was being obnoxious and he knew it, but damnit—he didn't want to be having this conversation right now. He had other things on his mind. "It happens, Mom. I didn't take anything. I didn't even drink—all I had was soda, I swear. I was just tired, that's why I came back early."

She was looking at his eyes. He knew she was looking for signs he was still high and God knew she'd seen it enough to know what she was looking for but he really was clean—at least this time. In fact he'd been clean since he got back from Hazelton and he had every intention of staying that way from now on. He really did. He'd had enough of that crap—he had other things to do, no matter what the current opinion of him seemed to be.

"Well, alright." She seemed hesitant. "If you're sure—I'll start breakfast while you take a shower, honey." She started out and had his door half closed when she stuck her head back in. "I forgot to tell you, Alfred called while you were out. He wanted to know if you could go over there today, they have some things for you to do."

Jesus.

"Dick? Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, sure, but I told Sergei I'd help with the kids—he has that meet with the gym in the city coming up and the lower levels are going—some of the kids will be having their first competitions and they're nervous, so he asked me to help them." God, he was babbling.

"Well, call him, at least, will you?"

"I will."

"Don't forget."

"Mom."

"Alright, sorry. Get cleaned up, sweetie."

"Wayne residence."

"Alfred? It's Dick. You wanted me to come over today? I'm really sorry, but I have to work. Maybe next week, if that's okay with you."

"Oh dear, Master Bruce was somewhat anxious to have you here this afternoon. Might there be any way that it could be arranged? Perhaps if I were to come get you? I'd be more than happy to provide transportation should that be necessary."

"That's not the problem, I have to be at my other job today."

"I see. Well, might you be available later in the day? Perhaps after dinner for a bit?"

"I don't know. I have a lot of things I should be doing..."

"It shan't take long. If I were to come by your home around seven thirty, would that be convenient?"

"Uh, well, not really, no." Besides, the Bat probably wanted to kill him for figuring out the big secret.

"I believe that the master wouldn't be opposed to going to you. If he were to call at your mother's home this evening, would you be able to see him?"

"I'm going out with some friends." Christ. The man didn't give up. "I tell you what. I really can't do anything today. What if I went to your place on tomorrow, say in the afternoon. Would that be okay with everyone?"

"Yes, that would be acceptable. Around one, then? We'll be expecting you, thank you."

The last thing Dick wanted right now was to see Wayne at night—and without enough time for him to really digest what he'd found out last evening. The man was the fucking Bat, for God's sake. This was taking a little sinking in time. Okay, it was taking a lot of sinking in time.

On Sunday Dick rode his bike over to Wayne's place, went in through the delivery gate and knocked on the kitchen door, the way he always did. This time he was nervous.

"Ah, punctual, as usual. Do come in. May I get you something? A soft drink, perhaps?"

"Water would be good, thanks."

"Master Bruce is in his study, if you'll follow me."

Glass of water in hand, Dick sat down in one of the large leather chairs opposite Wayne's enormous desk—the one that looked like it had come from some embassy or museum or someplace—and probably had—or probably belonged in one, anyway. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Wayne?" Mr. Batman. Mr. Urban Legend.

The older man was contemplating Dick as if he was in a job interview or some kind of experiment. And, knowing Wayne, he might well be. Or he could figuring out how to scare the shit out of him to keep him quiet about—things.

At first Wayne didn't say anything, just studied Dick, looking at him like a scientist would look at a bug under a microscope. Finally, "I just wanted to touch base with you this weekend. Did everything go well in Minnesota?"

Of course. "Yes, fine, thanks."

"And you're not taking any drugs now, are you?"

Like it was any of his business. "No, I'm clean."

"But I understand that it's a daily fight, isn't that right? Have you been clean since you got back?"

Nosy bastard. "It is a daily struggle, yes, and yes, I've been off drugs since I left for Hazelton—is there a point to this and why do you care?"

"I think you know that I've been concerned about you since that night at the circus, Dick. The fact that you're not living under my roof doesn't mean that I'm not worried about you."

Christ, get to the point, will you? "I'm fine. And I know you've been looking over our shoulders since I went to live with the Porters and I also know all the stuff you've done for them—and for me. And I appreciate it." He started to get up. "So if that's all you wanted, I'll be going."

"It isn't. Sit down, please. Have you given any thought to what you'll be doing next year? You're a senior, right? Have you started looking at schools? Do you have any plans about what you might like to study?"

In fact, like most kids, he didn't really know, but figured he had to say something.

"I have a couple of ideas, nothing definite. I was thinking of maybe doing something with gymnastics, maybe sports medicine or something. I don't really know yet. I'm not sure anyone would take me with my record...you know, working with kids. Sergei's little gym is one thing, but...I haven't really made any decisions yet. I was thinking I might take a year or two off or something and see what I want." He saw Bruce start to say something but stopped him. "I know, my record as a minor is wiped clean, but that doesn't change the fact that I committed a felony and was in rehab for drug addiction. That's not exactly what anyone wants to see on a resume and, I don't know, even with the records sealed someone could find out."

"Have you thought about maybe working for me?"

Well, ah, no. "At Wayne Corp? Thanks, but I'm not interested in business or any of that stuff. Besides, I'd suck at it."

"I'm not talking about my company. I'm talking about working for me, personally."

What? Maybe he could become the under butler or something, press the cape when it got wrinkled—oh, yeah, just what he had in mind. "I don't think that would..."

"I'm talking more like a personal assistant. You'd help me with some of my off hour activities and just generally act as backup for me."

'Off hour activities'? Uh-huh, right. Even if the man was the Bat—and wasn't that a kick in the ass?—even if that was true, Dick wasn't interested in...things. He was right a few years ago. Wayne liked boys and he was willing to pay for them. Great, just what he had in mind.

Not.

"Yeah, well, thanks, but I don't think that's the sort of thing I'd be interested in, Mr. Wayne. If you'll excuse me, I should be going."

He got as far as the door when Wayne's voice stopped him. "I understand you met Batman last night."

Cards on the table time. "And how would you know that? Were you there?"

Wayne kept his face smooth and the inflection out of his voice. "I know him, yes."

Holy crap and no shit.

There was what would probably be described as a pregnant pause while Dick gathered his thoughts.

"And so what are you suggesting?"

"It occurred to me that you may be interested in helping me and, perhaps, a few of my acquaintances in some on-going work we have. I think that you might be a good candidate."

Jesus. Was the man really suggesting...? Holy shit. And if he turned Wayne down, what would happen then? Would he actually be allowed to just walk out the door knowing what he knew? Well, knowing what he thought he knew, what he suspected?

"What would this involve?" Putting on a weird costume? Having a secret identity? Getting shot at and dealing with a bunch of super powered freaks intent on taking over the world? For God's sake, he was a sixteen-year-old kid still recovering from a pretty good case of drug addiction—and other things. He wasn't in any position to do this, even if he wanted to.

"I suggest that you think about this for a few days. Call me if you have questions and I'll answer what I can."

"...Why me?" The sixty-four Thousand dollar question.

"You're intelligent, of course, and you're athletic—you'd be surprised how much that comes into things. Beyond that, you strike me as a young man who very much wants to do the right thing, to help people and, from what I've seen, you think and act outside the box. That's important in this line of work and you'd be surprised how few people are capable of it. You're independent and—forgive me— you don't have too many family ties. Plus, you don't seem to rattle very easily most of the time. The last year or so I can mark down to extenuating circumstances but I saw how you reacted when you got back—these last couple of months—your getting clean and staying clean—You've shown me what you're made of and I'm impressed. You have what it takes and it's my opinion that all you need is some direction."

Dick watched him as he ran off the litany of his virtues. This was surreal. Bruce Wayne, Batman—the Bat, wanted to bring him on board. Jesus.

"Is there money involved?" They needed the money. It was a consideration he had to think about. He did.

"Generally my friends fund their own activities and there's no salary, per se. Something can be worked out. It has been for others."

"...Uh, who are your friends?"

"We'll get into that later if you decide to get involved. I suggest that you consider what I've said. And I assume you know that I'd very much prefer that you don't discuss this conversation with anyone."

"Yeah, I sort of figured." He saw the dark look he got for that. "I'm not completely stupid, alright? I'll keep my mouth shut."

"Good. Now if you don't have any immediate questions, I believe that Alfred may have a few things you might be able to help him with." He was dismissed.

"Uh, just to make absolutely sure that we're on the same page here—we're not just talking about me cleaning the floor of your garage here, right?"

Wayne didn't answer, but the expression on his face was enough. No, this wasn't an interview for menial labor.

"I need to think about this. I'll call you, like you said."

After Dick had left, with no further mention of him doing chores today, Bruce sought out Alfred in the kitchen preparing dinner.

"It is still completely beyond my comprehension why you think this is a good idea. I mean, really, Master Bruce. The boy is likely capable enough, but he has a history of drug use, his past is severely troubled and he's..."

"He's exactly right."

"This is insanity. The boy will be killed and you'll have that on your head. Beyond that, you've never in your life had a partner. Why on earth do you feel the need for one now? Or is it that you wish for a son?"

"Alfred, we've been over this. I would like to work with someone. I think having dependable backup in the field with me is a good idea I should have acted on years ago, in fact, I think Dick would have been the right choice then—and may have set him on a different path."

"If you feel the need for 'backup', as you call it, then surely one of the more experienced people you work with regularly would be a better choice."

"I've made my decision, Alfred, now please let it go."

"You'll forgive my saying that I think this is a mistake?"

"So long as you don't say it again, I will. Now, what did you plan for dinner this evening?"

Dick pedaled home slowly, lost in thought. Working for Bruce Wayne as his personal assistant?

No.

Working for Batman as his personal assistant.

Jesus.

TBC

10/15/04

9


	11. In Another Land Part 11

Title: In Another Land Part Six

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim.

**In Another Land**

Part Eleven 

"Hi, Pop? It's Dick Por—Grayson. Is this a bad time?"

"Dickie? Good lord, son, it's never a bad time for you. How on earth are you? It's been, what—three years since I heard from you? You keeping out of trouble?"

"Yeah, Pop, I'm good. I just wanted to talk with you. How are you doing? Everything alright down in Florida this year? How are the elephants?"

"You know elephants, they never change. I think Susie misses you, though. You always were her favorite, you know. So, is everything going alright with you in that fancy school they have you in up there? You getting good grades, are you?"

"Yeah, they're fine."

"And those nice people you're with, they treating you good, are they? They treating you the way you should be treated?"

"...Everything's good. You're alright? I heard you were sick—you're better now, are you? You had me worried, Pop."

"It was just a little spell I had. I'm fine now, but I tell you, it's not like the old days here. Not like when your mom and dad and you were headlining the show—the crowds aren't what they were when you were flying, Dickie and that's the truth. I look up at those traps and I think I'm going to hear your father teasing your mother about her getting fat—and you know she never weighted more than a hundred pounds dripping wet, but he'd tell her she was putting on some weight and she'd get so mad. I swear, I can still hear him teasing her about that and she'd get so mad at him then he'd give her that big smile he had, the one just like yours and she'd forgive him and he'd laugh—I miss them, Dickie. I miss all of you being with us like you used to be."

"I miss all of you, too, Pop."

"But you're doing alright? You're not getting into any trouble, are you?"

"No, I'm good."

"Aren't you about to finish school? You going to college? I know your parents always thought you should go to some fancy college, you were always so smart. You going to do that, make them proud, are you? Make us all proud of you?"

"I'm not sure about that. I, I haven't decided yet." He wasn't sure how to ask this. Okay, jump in with both feet. "I sort of have a job offer, and I'm not sure what to do about it."

"What kind of job, Dickie? So you think you need money more than you need schooling, do you?"

"I guess, maybe. It's sort of helping out a man I know."

"Nothing illegal, is it?"

Well... "That's the thing. Not really, I mean I don't think so, but..."

"But it's not really legal, either? Is it something you want to do? There must be something funny if you're calling me about it."

"Maybe. It's nothing bad. I mean it's not like the mafia or anything like that. It's sort of helping the cops, sort of undercover work."

"Dickie, you getting into something that would make your mama worry if she was here?"

"Nah, no more than she ever worried about me turning a quad. I guess, I mean, I guess I'll think about this a little bit longer."

"Dickie? You sure you're not in any trouble? You don't sound right to me. You're not doing anything you shouldn't, are you? You're too smart for things like that. You always have been."

"No, I'm good, Pop. I swear. I just wanted to talk to you and make sure you're okay."

"Well, if you called to talk, I don't know why you aren't telling me what you want to talk about. You haven't said squat about anything, now what's on your mind, boy? You are in some kind of trouble, aren't you?"

"No, no trouble, I'm just not sure what I want to do about this offer, that's all."

"You gonna tell me what it's really about?"

"It's sort of hard to explain, but I think it's mainly helping out some private cops, sort of like a gofer."

There was a pause while Dick could hear Pop opening and pouring something from a pull top can, probably a beer, knowing Pop. "You were a little kid when you left us, but you always had a good head on your shoulders. You know what's right and what isn't—your parents taught you that, but you always knew anyway. You're one of the ones it's just sort of born in. You think this is a good thing to do, something that will make you happy, something you can live with and look at yourself in the mirror in the morning if you decide it's for you—then you do it. You think it's going to make you miserable, make someone else miserable, maybe cause trouble for people who shouldn't have trouble, then you walk away." A beat while Dick could hear Pop swallowing. "That make sense to you?"

"Yeah, it makes sense."

"Then you make the decision that's right for you. And Dickie? I saw your picture in the paper when you won that gymnastics meet last year, so I got a friend of mine to scare up some video of you there and you were looking real good—good form, good moves, good combos and you can still wrap a crowd around your little finger like nobody's business. I swear, nobody works a crowd like you do—even when you were little you could do that. I'm proud of you—and your parents would have been, too, you hear me? You looked real good doing all those moves."

"You saw that? God, I, jeez, I never thought you'd, you know. I never thought you'd see that. It wasn't that big a deal, just an age group thing."

"You know I keep an eye on you when I can. You keep your nose clean, you hear me? And when are you going to get yourself down here for a visit?"

"I don't know, I'm pretty busy up here and..."

"Well, we're playing Gotham this fall, you come see me, okay?"

"I will."

"You promise me now. And you know this job thing doesn't work out, you ever need work, all you have to do is give me a call, you know that, don't you?"

"I know, Pop."

"You're family. That don't change. You need me, you call, Dickie."

"I know, Pop. I will."

Dick went down to dinner when Bonnie called him a few minutes later. "Who were you talking to so long, sweetie?" Dick had the feeling lately that she half expected him to tell her he was just checking in with his dealer.

"I called Pop—Pop Haley, just to catch up. It's been a while."

She handed him his cheeseburger. "How is he? You two were talking such a long time. Everything alright with him?"

"He seemed fine. Are we out of ketchup?"

She handed him a new bottle from the cabinet. "I got a call from your guidance counselor this morning." She saw his immediately suspicious look. "She just wants to talk about your college applications. I think maybe we should start looking at schools for next year, honey. Maybe we could take a road trip this weekend and see a couple ones close by."

Okay, time to drop the shoe.

"I was thinking of maybe waiting a year before going to college. You know, take a year off."

Bonnie looked like she was about to stop breathing. "Dick, sweetie—why?"

"Because I need a break and I'm not sure what I want to study, anyway."

The food was forgotten. God, Dick was nothing if not good at throwing curves. And Bonnie was, after all, a teacher. School, education—was everything to her, well almost everything, anyway. "Well, what would you do for a year? Get a job, travel? You know I won't have you just sitting around—you have to do something constructive."

"Actually Bruce sort of offered me a job helping him out—sort of like an assistant."

Dear Lord. "But you don't have any experience in business and, I, well—are you thinking about helping around his house, like one of the household help?" He wanted to be a footman or a butler?

"He said I would be like a personal assistant to him."

She got up and poured herself a glass of water, needing to move more than she needed a drink. "Is this what you were talking to Mr. Haley about just now?"

"He says that if it's something I want to do, I should give it a try." Okay, that wasn't exactly what he'd said, but close enough. "I was over at Bruce's yesterday, he'd asked me to stop by in a few days, and we talked about it then. I think, I sort of think that it may be interesting."

"Do you think you'll go on to college later, then?"

He took a bite of his burger. He was hungry, even if she wasn't. "I guess I'll see what happens in a year."

Bonnie seemed less than thrilled.

"Mr. Wayne, Bruce. How could you do this behind my back? Knowing what I've been through with him—what he's been through the last year and a half. You go ahead and offer him a job without even bothering to find out if he has any college plans, without even having the courtesy to ask me if I even approve of any of this? I mean, forgive me after all you've done to help him—and us, but you've overstepped, you really have."

"Mrs. Porter, Bonnie. Honestly, I'm not offering him charity. I'm offering him a job which may lead to a career if it's something which interests him and if he's as good at it as I suspect he'll be."

"He said something about working as an assistant to you, is that what you offered? Don't you have enough assistants to fill a small town?"

"This is something different. I'd have him working on some special projects directly with me. And, in fact, I've been thinking about taking someone on for this position for a while now."

"But—Dick is still a high school student—surely he's not the best qualified for something like that."

"Bonnie, he's exactly what I'm looking for. He's young enough and intelligent enough for me to train him exactly as I want for this. I think he's perfect for my needs."

"Your needs? But what about college? If he starts working with you, he may never go and..."

"If he wants to continue his schooling it can be arranged. To start, the job will be time consuming, so it would probably be best if it were delayed a year or so, but I'd completely support him if he wanted to enroll somewhere. In fact, if everything works out, I'd probably be willing to pay his way as an investment."

"Well...would he be living at home here or would he be expected to stay with you?"

There was a small pause. "To be honest, I hadn't considered that. I suppose it might be easier if he stayed here on occasion, now that you mention it."

"...You should have discussed this with me, first. You really should have, after everything that's happened and everything he's been through, I would have hoped that you would think before you made your offer to him."

"If I didn't think that this was in his best interest, I wouldn't have spoken to him about it. Now, I've simply made an offer. It's up to him whether or not he wants to accept."

Dick was out back again, sitting in that old chair, wrapped in Andy's old Irish hand knit, the one he'd had since he and Bonnie had gotten married. In fact it had been her Christmas present to him that first year—a splurge she couldn't really afford but one she knew he'd love, and he did. It was almost eleven at night and they had to get up early for school, but Bonnie walked out instead of just calling him to come in.

"Thinking about things, sweetie?"

He nodded, quiet, reflective. "I'm going to take Bruce up on his offer when I graduate. And I'm going to up my training with Sergei so I can compete in the senior championships in a couple of months." Bonnie didn't say anything. "Is that alright with you?"

She sat next to him, pulling the other chair close. At least he seemed to have some direction, something to do other than the drugs he'd been hiding behind. Maybe this really was it, maybe he really had turned a corner. "You know I'd like you to go to college, but I can't complain about you making your own decisions. And I know you've wanted to do this gymnastics thing for a while, I'm so proud that you've been able to make it happen—as for the job with Mr. Wayne—can we really call him 'Bruce'?"

How odd to think of him like that, like just another neighbor down the road.

Dick nodded again in the dark.

"Bruce's job may pan out and it may not, but if you want to try then it's fine with me."

"And I don't think working with him will solve everything, Mom, okay? I know it's all still my problem to deal with."

"I didn't say you did think that, honey."

"You think that's why I'm going to do it, though. I know you and you're wrong. I think that this may be something I may be good at, something where I can really do something important—Bruce does a lot of stuff that makes a difference, you know."

He sounded a little too defensive to Bonnie and she wondered what his real reason for wanting to take the job was.

They were both concerned with their own thoughts for a few minutes.

"Dick, the drugs—do you really think that you've beaten them?" She was so frightened for him.

"I don't know."

She'd expected some assurance from him, a promise that it was over and behind them. "Have you...?"

"No."

God, she was so frightened for him. He was still a baby in a lot of ways, still so young despite everything that had happened to him.

"Have you ever thought how things would have been if my parents—my real parents—hadn't died?" He knew that she was alright with talk about the Graysons. In fact, she encouraged it as healthy for him, for both of them. "I'd still be with the circus. Well, probably, anyway. We'd still be touring. I'd have been home schooled, I guess." He shifted in the chair. "Do you think you and Andy would have adopted some other kid if I hadn't come along?"

"I guess so. We were on the list. I suppose we would have sooner or later." She tried to see what his expression was in the dark. "You know how much we both loved you, though—how much I love you now. You're my son and you always will be. You have to know that, Dick."

"Andy would be alive if it wasn't for me."

"Andy would be alive if that truck driver hadn't been over the line. It could still have happened. You know that, Dick. Blaming yourself is an excuse and I'm not going to have you go down that road again. Andy died because of a mistake another driver made, not because of anything you did."

He didn't answer.

"Dick?"

"I know that." He stood up, obviously refusing to discuss this any longer. "It's getting late, I'm going to bed."

"I'll be there in a minute—oh, I forgot. Sarah called earlier, she was wondering of you wanted to go to a movie with her tomorrow. Are you two seeing each other?"

"She wants to." He shrugged; silhouetted against the lights from the house she could just make it out. "She's alright, I guess." He went inside, ending any questions about that. Well, he was old enough to have a girlfriend, certainly.

Working for Bruce Wayne as some kind of personal assistant. This could go anywhere.

"Bruce? It's Dick. I've given your offer some thought, but I have a few questions. Is it alright if I come over to talk?"

"Of course. Tomorrow is Saturday, you were going to come over anyway to help Alfred—we can talk then."

"Look, I think we both know what you want me to do, more or less, but I need to know some details before I commit to this. I mean, what are we really talking about here? Do you want me to open the mail or am I supposed to sit next to you when you go out at night?"

"Go out at night?"

"You know—c'mon, Bruce, I'm not stupid. I know who you are. Do you think I'll just be a flunky or do we really work together? Are you looking for some hired help or are you looking for a sidekick, a student to teach what you do and who might be able to fill in if, you know, if something happened?"

Bruce leaned back in the big leather desk chair. They were in his study, the fire was burning, the room—unlike the rest of the mausoleum—was warm and inviting, relaxed. "A lot of that depends on how you take to the training and your attitude. I know you're a top athlete, I know you're coachable and I know that you're intelligent. Beyond that, I think you have a basic understanding of what some of my friends and I do, in addition to which, you have personal reasons to want to make some inroads against the lesser examples of our population."

"So you're saying I could take this as far as I was willing to work with it?"

"Pretty much, yes. That's up to you and my evaluation of your performance."

"And what happens if I wash out, if I change my mind or you decide that I suck?" Dick was sitting across from him on the long couch, angled towards the fire and the warmth. "You kill me to keep my mouth shut?"

Bruce actually gave a small smile. "Nothing so dire. You saw 'Men in Black'? The neutralizer? I use one of them." Dick looked like he was about to bolt. "I'm joking, Dick, relax. If you don't end up staying, I'm sure you'll keep things between us. I doubt if anything would go any further." And he had the neutralizer.

Dick stared at him, thinking, making a decision, coming to a conclusion.

"I finish school in June. After that, okay?"

Wayne nodded. "Fine. We'll start with some of the basics today. First of all, you need to understand a few things..."

TBC

10/21/04

10


	12. In Another Land Part 12

Title: In Another Land Part twelve

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim...and you feel better.

**In Another Land**

Part Twelve 

"Sergei? That's bullshit, what do you mean I can't use the quad as a dismount? That's completely lame."

"You know it's not sanctioned by the Gymnastics Federation—is too dangerous. They're afraid that you'll get killed and sue them."

"It's fucking bullshit—what if I demonstrate that I can land it, what if I show them I can stick the damn thing? Will they allow it then?"

Sergei had just gotten off the phone with the USGF (United States Gymnastics Federation) where he was informed that his student would not be allowed to perform his high bar routine as planned but would be expected to substitute another trick in the quad's place. They were concerned for the boy's safety—with a dismount that difficult, a move that no one in the country had landed successfully; it was simply too great a risk.

The fact that Dick had been doing it since he was eight cut no ice at all and they were both furious.

"It's just the old guard making sure some new upstart doesn't take anything away from the favorites—that's all it is and you know it, Sergei."

"Of course. The question is what shall we do about it? You can always land a triple or a double/double."

"Yeah, like everyone else who'll be there. Why can't I just throw the quad? If I land it on national TV they can't get away with their crap."

"Dick—enough of this language, the judges mark you down and the parents here don't like it."

"Fine, whatever, but this is stupid."

They were in Sergei's office, the phone call having gone about as he'd thought it would. There were ways around this, though. "You know that exhibition next week with the team from Romania and a bunch of gymnasts from the NCAA?"

"The one at the Garden? Sure. Why?"

"You go, you throw the quad, you land it and then you'll force the judge's hand. You stick it and then they know you can do it under pressure and—just as important—the Europeans know that an American can land the quad when none of them can. Sound good?"

"But, I'm not in the NCAA."

Sergei smiled that weird smile he had when he was planning on something he knew was probably illegal. "I'm the coach. You not worry about this. You just get your routines ready."

Sure enough, eight days later Dick was in New York City for an invitational meet with the Europeans vs. the NCAA and with a few promising high schools students allowed in for good measure and to give them international experience. They were looked on as the cute little kids playing in the big sand box for the first time and were patronized without mercy.

The meet was an exhibition, was just one afternoon and since it wasn't a competition, the athletes were free to do moves that weren't always considered kosher. It was showoff time with relatively little pressure. They wouldn't even be scored; it was just for fun and to psych out the competition.

One thing that surprised Dick when he got there was how much Romanian he remembered from his father. No, he couldn't talk to anyone fluently or anything like that, but he pretty much knew what they were saying to him and could make himself understood. And the Romanian girls—okay, the American ones, too—seemed intrigued by the new kid with the incredible blue eyes. Sure, all the men had killer bods, if a little overly muscular for some tastes with those Popeye arms, but this new kid was different; taller, leaner and definitely the best looking thing on the floor. Besides that, you'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind to not see how he connected with the crowd. The phrase 'played the like a violin' wasn't out of line—he looked up, smiled that smile, picked out someone to direct the whole routine to and the crowd was a goner.

And when he turned that smile onto one of the young ladies in the exhibition—well, he got their attention and that was no lie.

You add that to the fact that he was just so obviously having a good time out there and there was no way not to like the kid.

And as for his athleticism, he was young and needed some seasoning, but he was the one to watch and that was obvious. In fact, he made the old pros, the ones who'd been around for a while look flat out stodgy and a little boring.

The women—the girl's—alternated their routines with the men. One would do a beam or floor routine followed by a man on the rings or something. When it was Dick's turn he saw Sergei nod to him as he chalked his hands. One of the Romanians, Dimitri—a nice guy who Dick had sort of struck up a quick friendship with—was his spotter for the high bar. The ESPN cameraman was asked to move off the mat to give them room but stayed close enough to record every move.

The routine went fine with the usual moves, the giant swings and the grip changes but he still stood out from the other men because of the combination of his looks, his height and the fact that he was doing the damn moves better and with more grace and style than anyone else was doing them; it was obvious even to the guys running the follow spots. There was an elegance to his movements the others, accomplished though they may be, simply didn't have. He did the release moves without problem and began the wind up for his dismount. Spinning faster, two, three more giant swings, the release almost straight up to the ceiling, the quick tuck, the four and a half turns and he was on his feet—legs together, arms up and no hop.

He'd stuck the quad in public and on ESPN with a couple of the sport's best commentators watching and some of the top men and coaches sitting on the sidelines.

Dimitri shook his hand—"Vinitor, excelent!" (Amazing, excellent!) then threw his arms around him. The other men started a standing ovation then went up on the platform—hey, it was an exhibition, they could bend the rules—and joined the crowd in their applause, adding back slapping and handshakes. The crowd, not exactly sure what they'd just seen, but knowing it was something special, kept applauding and the American coaches were asking each other who the hell was that kid and did they all just see the same thing?

An hour later, down in the locker room, Dick was approached by a couple of scouts from Big Ten schools promising they'd call and giving him their cards. The commentators wanted to talk to him about his quad and the rest of the gymnasts were all talking about going out to catch some pizza; something cheap and good they usually weren't allowed to have.

When Dick left by the stage door after a shower and a change into his usual worn jeans and an old tee, he signed a few autographs for the youngsters who had waited and started across the street to meet the others. He was the belle of the ball, or so it seemed, and they were going to wait for him—the American men from the NCAA teams all seemed to want to talk to him about their individual schools and asked if he'd be at Nationals next month. The girls wanted to sit next to him.

God, it was a great dinner. He was the center of attention and when the Romanians heard his background they smiled—of course he was good—he was a Rom, a Tigan, a Gypsy. He could do anything—they should all watch their backs because he'd beat them all, even if he were too tall.

After the three-hour dinner he started back to the Garden. Sergei said they'd meet in front around ten to drive back home, please don't be late. Getting there a few minutes early, he sat on the curb. It was the first time all day he was able to be alone and he needed the quiet to get everything sorted in his own head. God, today had been incredible.

"You're Dick, aren't you? You were pretty good this afternoon."

He looked up. Four teens about his age, three guys and a pretty dark haired girl were a few feet away.

"Thanks. Do I know you?"

"Not really. We just thought we might want to check you out today, that's all."

"Because...?"

They exchanged glances with one another. "Because we may be working together soon and we wanted to see what you were like."

Working together? Hell, of course. Two plus two and all of that. Bruce probably sent them to make sure he wasn't screwing up or scoring or something. This wasn't too hard to figure out. Nice to be looked after—but not right now. He was tired and still on a high from the day and just wanted to sleep in the car going home. He was flat out not in the mood for this right now.

"You guys are the Titans, right? Some of them, anyway."

The pretty girl—and she was very pretty, stepped forward. "Don't pay any attention to him, he's just trying to intimidate you." She gave the red haired boy a look that slowed him down. He was like a prize bull defending his turf and Dick didn't even know what the playing field was yet.

"Yeah, well, I don't know that we'd work all that well together, so you can release whatever crawled up your butt. It may not happen." This jerk didn't bother him—he'd faced down lots worse than a macho attitude.

"Your new boss seems to think it's a lock." The other boy, the one with brown hair spoke up and with less belligerence.

The red head, evidently angry about something, "And when he says 'jump' we're supposed to ask how high, right? I don't work for him and neither do you. This is crap—the man says we have a new waif to take in and you all bow and say 'yessir'. Well, screw that, not me. You do whatever you want; I'm fucking outta here. Christ! He's a rookie, for God's sake. We'll spend all our time holding his hand and he's a damn junkie on top of that..."

"And you're not?"

"Fuck you."

"You want us to think you're not still using? That's bull..."

"I'm clean—I don't need that shit..."

"You want to give us a tour of your room when we get back?"

"Not the time for this Roy, calm down, will you?"

"Don't tell me what the fuck to do..."

The girl and the brown haired boy pulled 'Roy' away, leaving the last young man standing there calmly regarding Dick. He hadn't said anything yet, keeping out of the small argument. He sat on the curb maybe two feet from Dick. "Don't mind them, they'll work it out. You were quite good this afternoon."

The accent was odd, though not unpleasant and in the bright city lighting Dick could see that the boy had purple eyes. Jesus. That was weird to see in person. He'd read about it somewhere, but to be next to them was a different thing altogether.

"You're Aqualad."

"Garth."

"That sounds better."

The other boy laughed. "Tell me about it. It wasn't my idea." They heard the others trying to calm 'Roy' down. "Don't let him bother you, he's not that bad most of the time." Dick glanced over at the others. They seemed to be slowly succeeding in restoring quiet. Slowly. "You must have a lot of questions—or have you made up your mind about everything yet?"

"I sort of told, uh, I mean, I sort of said I'd probably do this for a while and see how it works out."

"And you're having second thoughts and wondering what you're getting yourself into? Everyone feels like that." He paused, probably gathering his own thoughts or trying to decide how to phrase what he was going to say and when he did speak his voice was quiet and calm. Dick got the very distinct feeling that he was an intrinsically gentle person and then mentally kicked himself—this guy was supposed to be royalty and he was a certified hero. Gentle? Soft spoken? A nice guy? How weird—but seemingly true. "If you have any second thoughts or if you're unsure—then don't go ahead with it. If you're not a hundred present committed, that's when you get hurt." He gave a half smile. "I know."

"You've been hurt?"

"We've all been hurt. It's part of the job and you just sort of accept it and hope it's not too bad." The arguing got louder again, Garth ignored it. "Wally, he's alright. He's conservative and once you understand that about him you know where his thoughts come from and how to take what he says. Roy is, Roy hasn't had an easy life—though I guess none of us have. He doesn't always deal well with things, but he'll back you up and I know he'd do anything for any one of us. Donna is..." This time he really smiled. "I think we're all a little in love with Donna. You'll see about that. She's quite wonderful. And you're...?"

Dick realized that he was being asked a question. "I'm the new kid, I guess."

He laughed. "I guess you are."

The other three seemed to have regained some degree of control and were strolling the fifty or so feet back when Sergei pulled up, though Roy seemed to stay in the background.

"I guess I'll see you around."

The pretty girl, Donna kissed his cheek. "You give us a call if you need anything, even just to talk or hang out, okay? You can get the number."

He opened the car door and started to get in. "Thanks. I'm still sort of nervous about this, you know? And—thanks." They smiled or nodded as the car pulled away.

"Honey? How did it go? Everything alright? Did you have a good time? Were they nice to you?"

Bonnie was waiting up when they arrived back at the house, Dick getting out without Sergei even bothering to park or turn into the driveway. He was tired, too.

"It was good—I landed the quad—I stuck and it was on camera. And the other gymnasts were pretty nice after that. I mean, at first they sort of ignored me and the other high school kids who were there, but after the quad it was like I was their new best friend and there were coaches from these big schools—Stanford and Michigan and wherever— who all said they were going to call about scholarships—and we went out to dinner afterwards and I ended up talking to these guys who are like the best in the country and they wanted to talk to me—God it was amazing. And the Romanians? They were great, I could even understand a lot of what they were saying and they sort of adopted me when they found out I'm half Rom—God, it was like the best day of my life!"

"Scholarships? Honey, that's wonderful." She hugged him and for the first time in a while, he hugged her back. They broke apart, happy, smiling and glad to be together at this moment. "Are you hungry? Do you want anything?"

He shook his head. "I'm just tired, but Mom—it was so good today."

"I'm proud of you, you know how much."

The next morning Dick rode his bike over to Wayne Manor for his regular Sunday morning training session with Bruce, dreading it. They had been going over basic forensics, fighting techniques, computer skills, chemistry and a long laundry list of other subjects would be touched on in a given day. There was so damn much and Bruce pushed him hard, never satisfied, always wanting more or better from him almost never offering encouragement or a compliment. He made Sergei look jolly in comparison and it was getting frustrating for the boy, though he hadn't said anything. Everyday was the same.

"That's not carbon scoring, look again and pay attention this time"

"I told you that you need to separate those movements or they lose their effectiveness. Again."

"That's the wrong program for what you're searching for. Start over."

"The bullet should have an ID stamped on it. Trace its manufacturer; find out more than you have here. Let me know when you have something I can work with."

"You're not in the mood today? Then leave. Get out until you decide to be a professional."

"In your opinion? You don't know enough to have an opinion."

The sessions were becoming more and more difficult and Dick was starting to think that the whole thing was a mistake. Maybe he should just admit he sucked at this and stop wasting their time. It was frustrating and today was like all the others. He'd go in, do his best, work his hardest, think of everything he could to make himself maybe not look like a moron this time and always fall short.

Jesus, this was a mistake.

Maybe he should just bow to the inevitable and take one of those offers he might get to become a paid to go to school jock. It had to be better than this. It sure as hell couldn't be worse.

"If that's the best you're up to this morning, I suggest you get some more sleep."

"Fuck you, Bruce, I'm busting my ass here and it's not working. This is a frigging waste of time."

The expression didn't change a bit. "If that's your attitude, you're right. You can leave whenever you want."

About to snap off a rude comeback, Dick simply turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen door and out. Screw this. He'd had it. Wayne was a nightmare and he was out of his mind to think he could do this—or even that he'd want to, let alone that he might be any good at it. He sucked. He'd always suck and he should cut his losses now. College wouldn't be so bad. He could do that. It would be fine and they'd even pay his way. UCLA had offered him a full scholarship, including room and board, so had Michigan and Ohio, for that matter. And Stanford was interested as well. He could accept any of them with a phone call.

Screw it.

That's what he'd do. He didn't need this.

"Finished early today, are you?" The old guy, Alfred, was coming out of the laundry room. "Might I get you a glass of water or a sandwich or some such?"

"No, thanks."

"Have a run in with the Master, did you?"

That stopped Dick, at least for a moment. "No more than usual. I have things to do at home."

Alfred knew what was going on. It was written on Dick's face in neon. "Will you be back?" All he got was a shrug, an appalling habit. "You do know that you're the only one Master Bruce has ever considered for the position you're preparing for? Yes, it's quite true and he made his proposal to you after a good deal of thought. He's convinced that you're the one who can do the job and won't hear anything to the contrary."

"That's not what he tells me."

"Well, no, he wouldn't now, would he? That doesn't make it any less true, however."

"He tells me I'm a complete screw up."

"I doubt very much if he uses quite that phrase, young man." Dick wasn't sure, but he might have seen a fleeting twitch of Alfred's lips. He made a joke? Damn. "I also understand he arranged for you to meet several of the other young people he occasionally works with. They mentioned to me that you seemed—likely."

Whatever that meant.

"You must understand that Mister Wayne is not an easy man to please. His standards are rather high and he would never have suggested you join him if he didn't believe you have the potential to meet them. I trust you know that."

"I don't have that long to live."

This time Alf actually gave a real smile, a small, one—no teeth, but a real smile nonetheless. "You'd be surprised. I suspect you do."

"Is he ever not like—that?"

"Rarely, in my experience. Master Bruce is somewhat single minded when he sees a goal he wishes to attain. One would be wrong to take it as a personal affront."

So this was what he had to look forward to forever? Great. "I have to get home."

Just then Bruce walked in, getting himself a bottle of water. "You'll be back tomorrow?"

"I have to work at the gym everyday. You know that."

"Next weekend, plan on putting in two full days." That was all he said before he left for a shower or something, nothing about what had just happened between them.

Jerk.

Alfred followed Dick to the back door, opening it for him. "If I may suggest, why don't you take a few days to yourself, think about what it is you'd like to accomplish and make a choice on what you know, not what your current mood dictates. We'll be here when you have a decision."

Dick gave Alfred a glance as he left. "Yeah, I'll do that."

TBC

10


	13. In Another Land Part 13

Title: In Another Land/Part Thirteen of Fourteen

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim.

Note: I picked Stanford because my twin nephews graduated from there recently and went on athletic scholarships. I know a little about the place. Good school, good sports program and pretty campus—and yes, quite expensive. Oh, and they really are the current NCAA men's gymnastic champs with a team GPA of 3.5...no, not my nephews who were involved in other sports, the school.

**In Another Land**

Part Thirteen 

"You're quiet today, everything alright, sweetie?" It was now Thursday; this had been going on all week.

Dick looked up from his book. "Fine."

"Things on your mind?"

"Not really. Just doing homework." He was reading 'Hamlet' for English.

Bonnie paused a second. "Would you like some help? I could quiz you."

"No, thanks. I'm good."

She seemed at a loss as to what to say next. Dear God, let him not be back on drugs, though she'd seen no real signs that he was. This quiet wasn't like him, though. It could be the start of one his old black moods, that depression that he seemed to be finally getting over the last couple of months.

Not that again, please not that. He'd been doing so well with his school grades back up and his friends taking him in again. The gymnastics were going so well and Mr. Wayne—Bruce—seemed happy with whatever he was doing over there. He should be so proud of himself now. He even had that nice Sarah calling him all the time.

She went back into the kitchen to get the pot roast on the stove.

She loved Dick—and Andy had practically worshipped the boy, but he'd never been an easy child to have around. Well, that wasn't a surprise, really—with what he'd been through when he was young, before he came to stay with them. Certainly his own parents loved the boy, but it couldn't have been a simple thing to raise a child in a circus, constantly moving, pulling up and going to the next town or city. Then when those poor people were killed—and right in front of Dick, Lord—no wonder he was as damaged as he was when they got him. And frankly, that week he spent with Wayne didn't seem to have helped, truth be known.

You can't take a traumatized child like that, throw him into an entirely new environment and basically tell him to sink or swim. It just wasn't right. Well, yes, they'd been kind to him and concerned about him, but those two men had no idea how to deal with a child, especially one with as many problems as Dick had then—and still had now, if you wanted to know the truth. You didn't have to scratch too far below the surface to see that.

And here he was about to finish his schooling and Bonnie was afraid that if he took that job with Wayne, he'd never go back. For a young man as bright as Dick to not go on to college was just wrong. It was a crime as far as she was concerned and she blamed it on that man who thought he could buy whatever—whomever he wanted.

She'd seen the letters Dick had gotten from the recruiters, the ones from Stanford and Michigan, UCLA, Penn State and Ohio. They had Dick's name on the envelopes, but she'd asked him what they wanted and he had reluctantly shown her; offers of full scholarships, half tuition, free room and board, a paid for account at the college book store, his choice of classes and a personal coach.

They all wanted him and were willing to throw almost anything they had at him to get his signature on an acceptance letter.

His answer? He wasn't sure he wanted to go to college but he did know he didn't want to spend twenty or thirty hours a week in some gym. If he were going to spend that much time on his gymnastics, he'd call Pop Haley and do stunts that he'd at least get paid for.

When she'd pointed out the obvious, that the gymnastics could be a means to a free education, he'd just shrugged and said he was tired of going to school and he didn't know what he'd want to study, anyway.

But surely he could start in a liberal arts program and specialize from there once he found something he was interested in?

That seemed like a waste of time to him—why study hoping something would click? He'd rather wait until—or if—he found something he was really interested in.

When she asked him just what, exactly, he was doing with Wayne, just what the job was, he was vague and told her that he was training to become a sort of assistant to help Bruce with some of his hobbies and outside interests—oh, and she shouldn't worry, there wasn't anything funny or illegal about it. Really.

That was, he admitted to himself, pretty much of a lie.

He honestly didn't know what he wanted to do with his life and rather theatrically thought of himself as standing at a crossroads—if he went one way he'd maybe become one of the costumed heroes and he liked that idea. He liked the thought of helping people and righting wrongs, catching bad guys and making a difference. He really liked that. And he'd been flattered when the Titans had introduced themselves, seemingly ready to accept him as one of their own. That had been a rush.

And to work right alongside Batman, damn. How many people in the world could say that? Like—none?

On the other hand—right, four fingers and a thumb. He knew the old joke, too.

On the other hand was the idea of maybe getting killed or badly injured, of giving up any chance for a normal life, of living with constant secrets and lies.

He wasn't sure he was ready for that.

So, what to do?

Aye, as old Hamlet said, there's the rub.

He tried to think what his parents, his real parents would have wanted him to do and he knew his mother would have wanted him safe. They would have wanted him happy, but no one wants to think of their child getting shot at and his parents would have probably tried to—no.

They would have wanted him to do what he thought was the best thing for him. These were people who had taught their four year old how to fly on a trapeze in front of a circus crowd without a net and to think it was no big deal.

They would want him safe, but they would want him to, well, 'follow his destiny' sounded like pretentious bullshit, but it was sort of how he felt about it.

If it was his destiny.

God, he didn't know what to do and it wasn't like he could talk it over with his friends or Bonnie. They couldn't know and that bothered him, too.

He could have called the Titans, but he didn't really know them. Maybe the girl, the pretty one would understand, or the brown haired guy. Garth seemed like someone he could be friends with but—they were busy. They were important and he didn't want to bother them with his crap.

"Dick? Honey? Phone. I think it's Sarah."

That was another thing. People were calling him all the time now. Sarah, gymnasts he'd met at that exhibition, coaches, his old and current friends, parents of kids in Sergei's gym wanting to make sure that Dick would be the one teaching their kid and could he give some extra, private lessons while he was at it? Even Vanessa was on his case about helping the cheerleaders learn some more moves. And he had school and work and the thing with Bruce and his chores at home...and there were still a few kids who offered him drugs at every turn; in the bathrooms at school, in the locker room, at parties, at the movies or just hanging out somewhere.

He hated it and resented their taunts and disbelief when he turned them down.

He felt like he was being pulled in about twenty different directions and it was starting to get to him. He mentally took a breath.

"Hey, Sarah. What's up?"

"Hey, Dick, you want to go to a movie tomorrow? Maybe we could get some dinner first if you want?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, sounds good. I have to work till around six, is that a problem?"

"No, no problem. Should I pick you up at the gym then?"

"Sounds like a plan. See you then."

Sarah was okay. In fact he liked her. He wasn't in love with her or any of that, but he liked her just fine. He suspected that she liked him more than he returned to her, but they had a good time together even though he got the impression her parents would prefer if she was seeing someone other than a former junkie.

In fact, he could see their point and so didn't push anything with either them or her. They didn't do much more than make out now and then, yeah, well maybe a little more than just now and then—not as much as Sarah would have liked, but that was about it. They were mainly just good friends, at least as far as Dick was concerned.

"Are you and Sarah getting together, honey? She's such a nice girl—I'm glad you're seeing her."

Oh, God. "She's okay. We're going to a movie tomorrow."

"I got a call from your guidance counselor this afternoon." She saw the look on his face. "No, nothing bad. The SAT results came into the office and she thought I'd like to know before they hand them out tomorrow. You scored just over fifteen hundred, fifteen-oh-seven—oh, sweetheart, I'm so proud of you!" She went around to hug him, which he allowed, though he pulled away after just a few seconds. "You've worked so hard and done so well this year, honey, you really have."

He gave her a grudging half smile and a nod.

Bonnie saw a piece of paper on the counter. "Oh, damn. I forgot to tell you, that man called you again from Stanford—that coach, Jim something? He said you could call him back this evening so he can arrange your trip out to California. Dick? What's that about?"

"They're recruiting me, that's all. It's a free trip to San Francisco. Next month, I think."

"You want to go to Stanford? That's wonderful, honey!"

"I don't know if I want to go there. I'll see what they have to say."

"What about the job with Mister Wayne?"

"I'm not sure about that, either. I'll see what looks best."

It was apparent he wasn't going to be questioned about this. "Are you going to the National's in June? Sergei was asking me the other day when I saw him and he said you hadn't committed yet. I think you should..."

"Make up my mind. I know, alright? This is like frigging twenty questions, for Christ's sake. Will you just leave me the fuck alone, please?" He brushed past her; a moment later she heard his room door slam.

God, this was like last year, this was like he was just before he OD'd. He couldn't, he wouldn't—not again. But he was under so much pressure right now; finishing school, his job, competing, working with Bruce—it was too much when he was still so fragile.

"Hey, is this Donna? This is Dick—we met a couple of weeks ago outside the Garden. Look, I'm really sorry to bother you, but I was sort of hoping that you, I don't know—that you might have a couple of minutes."

"Sure, absolutely. Would you like me to come over to your house? It's no trouble or anything."

"No, I mean, it's too far and you don't have to do that or anything, the phone is fine."

"Oh, don't be silly. I'll be right there." She hung up and Dick was left with the receiver in his hand a wondering if he'd just done something really stupid.

Inside of a minute he heard the front doorbell and voices down in the front hall.

"...I'm a friend of Dick's and we were going to work on a project together, is it alright if I go up to his room?"

"It's okay, I'm here, c'mon up. Mom? This is..."

"I'm Donna. And you're Mrs. Porter? It's really nice to meet you." She gave Bonnie this amazing smile and exuded this wholesome vibe that you could practically cut with a knife. "Dick? Did you bring home the book?"

"Yeah, it's upstairs, c'mon."

With the door closed and the two of them sitting on opposite ends of the bed, Donna started. "So you're having second thoughts?"

A small nod. "And other offers—college scholarships and a job. I could work for the people, the company my parents and I used to work for instead of Br—Batman."

She half smiled. "I know who he is. Well, you have to make your own decision, you know that. But what are your doubts based on? Money? The fear of getting hurt? The whole life style you'd pretty much have to adopt?"

"All of the above, I guess. I, there's a part of me who just wants to have a nice normal life—go to school, get a job, meet some nice girl, get married, have kids—all of that. But there's this other part of me who wants to do something bigger than that, make a difference, not live in the box. And I have a feeling that the decision I make now will determine a lot of things about my life."

She was watching him as he spoke, really listening. "I think everyone—well, almost everyone, feels like that. We do what we do, but it would be nice to be able to come home to a nice dinner and a picket fence or something normal. Instead you end up going home to an empty apartment and have your dinner either nuked from Stouffer's or delivered from the local pizza place. It wears thin after a few years. And to be honest, I don't know too many people who've managed to make any kind of relationship work for long—it's just really difficult and that can get pretty frustrating."

"So that's it, that's what it would be like? That sounds like it sucks."

She smiled. "It's not all like that, you know. There's the good stuff, too. You really do make a difference. You really do help people and a lot of time there's a feeling of belonging and of being part of something bigger than your own little problems that is incredible. You'll see things you can't imagine and you meet people you've read about—and they want to meet you and hear what you have to say. That's pretty cool."

Dick looked doubtful. Sure, part of it sounded good, but...

"If you're just doing this because you don't have anything better to do or because you're flattered by Bruce's offer, then you shouldn't." She paused a second. "You know, if you're this undecided, you might want to just postpone everything a year or so. You have those scholarship offers, right? So take one and see how you feel later. I mean, it's not like you actually have to make up your mind today or anything."

Dick nodded and absently thought again what a really pretty—no, a really beautiful girl she was. Garth was right; it was easy to see why they were all a little in love with her. He could see that happening with no problem at all. Not that she'd give him the time of day in that way, or anything.

"Yeah, I think, maybe."

She stood up, probably had a hundred places to go and people to talk to about more interesting things than his dithering.

"Thanks, Donna. You made a lot of sense."

"Any time, sweetie." She leaned over, kissed his cheek, smiled enough to knock his socks off and let herself out.

After a few minutes Dick picked up his phone, dialed the long distance number. "Hi, Jim? This is Dick Porter. I heard you wanted to set up the visit? Great. The weekend of the second is fine. Yes, I'm looking forward to seeing Stanford, too. I've heard it's a really beautiful campus."

So, Stanford would arrange and pay for him to fly into San Francisco, about an hour from the school in Palo Alto. The head coach would meet him at the airport and let him stay in his guest room. He'd get a full tour of the campus and the Burnham Pavilion where the gymnastics were housed. Any questions he had would be answered. He should bring at least one and preferably two videos of him in competition—yes, the exhibition tape would be fine and they'd see him in a couple of weeks. Oh, and sorry, but they couldn't pay for his mother though she was welcomed to come if she could swing a ticket. Their budget was limited, but he could certainly call her and if she had any questions or concerns, she was more than welcomed to get in direct touch with the coaches.

That weekend when Dick was supposed to work with Bruce he called instead. "Alfred? Could you tell Bruce that I'm going to, you know, take a little time to think about this? I haven't decided to quit or anything like that, I just have a lot of things going on right now and I need some time to sort everything out. I'll call in a—I mean, I'll call when I know more about things, okay?"

"I shall inform him, young man. I'm sure he'll look forward to your decision."

"Thanks, Alfred."

"And remember, decisions can always be changed."

Three weeks later Dick got off the plane, was duly met and had a quick tour and explanation of things on the ride to Palo Alto. Mr. Babera was head coach and he was the one Dick was staying with. Later, during a workout with the Stanford team, he found out that not only was James Babera the head coach for the Stanford men's gymnastics team, but he only ever allowed kids to actually stay in his guestroom and stay with his family who he believed would eventually make the US World team—it was a sort of snob thing the man had.

Dick was impressed by the campus, over eight thousand acres, most of it open space, beautiful buildings, and a state of the art gymnastics facility which was undergoing a renovation to make it even better. The Stanford team had won the NCAA championships last June and was favored to win again. The team members had a cumulative GPA of 3.5 with special tutoring available if needed, though it rarely was. Athletes were guaranteed campus housing for four years. The team currently had two all-Americans on it—both seniors and scheduled to graduate next spring.

Dick asked about his standing—he had thought that he was ineligible since because he'd worked with his parents circus act, he was a professional. Well, that would have to go to the NCAA, but they weren't too worried. It was so long ago, that it would probably be ruled alright. What about his getting paid to coach at Sergei's gym? That should be fine—as long as he wasn't actually paid to do routines or perform, he should be okay with that.

Well—he hesitated—was there any repercussions about his being in rehab or busted?

The bust was when he was a minor and it was expunged. He had no record and as for the rehab—he was clean, wasn't he? Well, then, that shouldn't be a problem, either, though they reserved the right to test him should they suspect anything. For that matter, they reserved the right to test any of their athletes if they suspected anything. There was a lot of money and the reputation of the school on the line. They couldn't allow that to be jeopardized.

Dick understood.

"Dick? How are you doing out there, are they being nice to you?"

"Everyone is being nice, Mom. The campus is amazing and everyone is being great. You'll love it when you come see it, you really will."

"You like it, then?"

"God, it's like what you imagine a campus to be like. It's incredible and everyone here is smart—you know how there's a cross section in most places with smart and average and dumb? Everyone here is really smart."

"And Mr. Babera is nice? His family is treating you well?"

"They're fine and his house is incredible—not like Bruce Wayne incredible, but like real people live in it incredible."

"Honey, you just be careful, alright? Just—you know, look out for yourself."

"I'll be back Monday night, Mom, I'll see you then, okay? I'll tell you all about it."

Monday morning he had a complete private tour of the campus, sitting in on a freshman English class and pleased that it wasn't any harder than his AP high school classes were—or so it seemed to him at this point.

On Monday afternoon, he went through a regular training session and workout with the Stanford squad. There were a couple of guys he'd met at the exhibition in New York and they took him under their wings, extolling his abilities to the others and making him show off his quad which brought the place to a stand still. They'd all heard about some kid out East throwing the quad and sticking the thing, but to actually see it—damn. This kid was good and it wasn't just on the one piece of apparatus, he wasn't a one hit wonder. He could throw amazing tricks in every rotation, original moves and creative combinations that upped the difficulty factor to a ridiculous level—and then he stuck every frigging move and combo and made them look easy. There was a nonchalance and elegance about his moves, almost a feeling that he was born to do this naturally while the others had simply busted their butts for years to never become as good as this kid. He had real talent and they were impressed.

Barbera was right. Dick had 'World Champion' written all over him. Next year he'd start down that road with a probable win at National's and they'd be chasing silver instead of gold as long as he was on the floor.

It was obvious to everyone in the room. If he didn't self-destruct.

Dick was welcomed with opened arms and maybe a little jealousy, almost like a little brother, and he loved everything about the place.

The three days went by fast and by the end, before he was even on his way back to the airport, he'd made his decision. Stanford was what he was looking for, at least for now.

He could be with people who were focused and had the same interests. They were all smart or they wouldn't be at Stanford to begin with. It was far enough from home that he could finally make his own way and he could do the gymnastics just for himself without having to think about a bunch of klutzy ten year olds.

Bonnie would be able to move into a new place without feeling like she was living off of one of Wayne's handouts and she could get on with her life without having the daily worry about whether or not he was going to walk in the door stoned or high or which phone call would be from the police or the ER.

And something else struck him. Back East, at home, things seemed, well—things seemed dark even on a sunny day. He had the stuff with Bruce hanging over his head and he had the reputation in town and in the school for being a druggie—reformed, maybe, but he still carried the stigma. He had constant reminders of all the crap he'd had in his life. Every time he went over to Bruce's place he had to pass the spot Andy was turned into road salad and the trees still had the scars where he'd hit. Whenever he went to Gotham he'd pass the field Haley's had been the night his parents had been murdered. There was no escaping any of it.

Stanford seemed like a place where he could start over without anyone knowing about his baggage. It seemed like such a good idea—starting fresh, making his own way and doing things on his own without his mother or Sergei or Bruce to hold his hand.

And besides, like Alfred had said, he could always change his mind and even if he did stay the whole four years, he'd just have that much more to bring to Bruce if they worked together then.

This was a good idea.

He'd do it.

TBC

10/26/04

11


	14. In Another Land Part 14conclusion

Title: In Another Land Part Fourteen/conclusion

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Thank you, Jim.

This conclusion to the series was requested by my teenaged son. Blame him, that scamp.

**In Another Land**

Part Fourteen 

"So that's what I think I'd like to do. It's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me or anything, it's just that right now I need some distance to get my priorities straight in my own head."

Bruce Wayne leaned back in his chair, his expression unchanging—a cold neutral. "If that's your decision, I'll accept it. I assume you have the sense not to discuss the things we were going over or the people whom you've met?"

"I'm not stupid."

A silence at the small outburst. Wayne stood, the meeting was over. "Good luck with Stanford. If you change your mind, let me know."

That was it, Dick was dismissed. No handshake, no 'good luck' or 'call when you're in town'. He stood, nodded and left.

He had sent in his letter of acceptance and would join the freshman class at Stanford the next fall, roughly five months later. He still had to finish his high school career and get his diploma. He'd still be working for Sergei for a while, but he'd go to California in late August, almost a month before the regular orientation, so that he could start training with the gymnastics team. He also had the US Championship in June to deal with—he was busy.

Oh, and he was seventeen now. Even with all the problems he had somehow managed to get through the local school system in the normal amount of time.

Dick basically walked through the last couple of months of high school with a serious case of senior slump. In his case, though, it wasn't because of too much partying; it was because he was trying to get his routines in shape for the National's. It was looking like he might well miss his graduation because he had to be in Nashville the first week of June. In fact, he had to get special permission to be away then, as he'd be missing a couple of his finals. The school agreed to let him take them the day before he left, though with studying for the exams added on top of his final training for the meet, he was getting both stressed and exhausted.

He didn't know how he was going to pull this off, but kept telling himself that this would be over in a few weeks—he could hang in that long.

And he was still off drugs. He was clean and he was proud of himself for that.

"Hey Dick, I heard you're going to compete in Nationals, that's awesome, man. Really awesome."

Christian sat next to him in the lunchroom. "It's okay—a lot of work, but I kind of have to." Christian looked a question at him. "I just got an athletic scholarship for gymnastics. I have to pay my way, y'know? It's sort of part of the deal."

"Rack up some medals for the glory of sport? Brownie points for the new kid?"

"Something like that." Dick took a bite of the vile cafeteria pizza.

"You and Sarah breaking up when you go to California?"

"I don't know, we haven't really talked about it. Why, you interested?" Christian had a crush on her going back to about fourth grade.

He just gave a half shrug as an answer. "I don't want to poach, man."

"It's okay. No, it really is. I don't have her on a leash or anything. If you want to go out with her, call her. She can do whatever she wants."

"...You sure?"

"It's cool. I'm too busy right now to really see her anyway. You might as well."

"No hard feelings?"

"None." Something else he'd known would be winding down.

Bonnie managed to find him in his hotel room. It was early June and he was in Tennessee, "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry that you had to miss the ceremony tonight—it was just beautiful."

Well, beautiful was probably an exaggeration for a high school graduation ceremony on a rainy night, but he knew Bonnie was disappointed that he'd had to miss the thing. He didn't care, but she did. "Why did you go if I wasn't there?"

"I had to, honey—you know with the new job teaching at the high school, I'm supposed to support things like that. Besides, all your friends were there and they—and their parents, too— all made a point of telling me how they were sorry you'd missed it. They were so sweet about it."

"That's nice." God.

"And when they read your name you got the biggest round of applause—the principal said you couldn't be there because of the meet and he mentioned how proud he was of you because of—you know—all the things you've overcome to be there. I was almost crying when he said that and people were so nice about it all."

Jesus. Thanks—making sure the whole damn school—anyone who'd somehow missed it by being in a coma the last couple of years, knew that the junkie had pulled himself up by those good old boot straps and was standing tall...Thanks a bunch.

"Honey? Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm just tired. It's been along day, that's all."

"Oh, listen to me go on, I didn't even get a chance to ask you; how's the meet going? How are you doing all by yourself down there?"

"It's going alright and I'm not alone, the Stanford guys have been with me and the coaches—I'm fine."

"Oh, I was so worried that you wouldn't have anyone to talk to, that's good, honey. I'm happy about that. How are you doing in the events? Are you doing well?"

Dick would never really understand how she could go to so many practice sessions, listen to his talk about this stuff and still be completely clueless about the sport he was in. "I tied for second in the all-around, but I'm one of the youngest here and it's my first try at National's as a senior, so it's pretty good. I'm fine, Mom."

"And then tomorrow you have the individual events, is that right? Do you think you qualified for any of them today?"

"I'll be in the vault, the parallels, floor and the high bar. I should do pretty well on the bar if I can hold on and make a decent job of the dismount and I'm usually alright in vault if I stick the landing."

"I know you'll be wonderful, honey—I'm so proud of you and you know your dad would be, too."

Which dad? Dick wondered for about the ten thousandth time, but had the tact not to ask. "Thanks, Mom. I have to go—we're supposed to start the warm ups at seven-thirty tomorrow."

"You get some sleep then, and be careful, will you? You know I worry about you with all those moves you do, they're all so dangerous."

Christ. He'd been doing most of them since he was eight.

"Good going man, that dismount was awesome—you stuck a damn quad—incredible!"

"Thanks. It felt pretty good today. And you were great on the rings, I was watching you."

"Ah, you know...rings, just muscle and some balance. You're Dick, right? I heard you're the new boy wonder for Stanford next year."

"Not really, I just do my thing, y'know? But I saw the stuff you were doing last rotation; I don't really have the strength to be really good on rings. I can do the moves, but the strength stuff—I'm just not there yet."

"Yeah, well, a couple years with Barbera and he'll have you doing those tricks just fine, you'll see, boy wonder."

"Thanks—and God, don't call me that."

"See you around, Boy Wonder."

Summer went by quickly that year, faster than usual. After Dick finished with the National's—where he'd medalled in high bar and vault as well as the all-around, he went back to working at Sergei's almost full time. On top of that he had his usual yard work for his old regular customers and he was helping Bonnie look for a new place for herself. She'd decided that with him out in California most of the time now and her new job and all, it was the right time to make a break and reorder her life. A new home—maybe a condo this time so she wouldn't have to deal with everything herself now that her son wouldn't be there to help out, would probably be more what she'd want now. She made sure only to look at places with two bedrooms so Dick would know he always had a place to come home to, even if 'home' was just a state of mind more than an actual place for him.

Sometime in early July he called Sarah to get together and wasn't all that surprised to have her apologetically tell him that she had plans to see Christian that evening.

He wasn't upset and they parted as friends.

Dick made a point of calling Pop Haley to let him know what he'd be doing the next few years and the old man had seemed extraordinarily pleased, telling Dick over and over how proud he was of the boy and how thrilled his parents would have been to know he was going to be a college kid. He'd be the first one in his family to go and it was something they'd hoped for him, they all knew he was smart—and to have his way paid for through the things his parents had taught him—well, they'd be doubly thrilled with that. He'd done well and when the tour got to San Francisco in November, they'd be sure to get together.

By the end of July, Dick was starting to think about what things he would have to pack for Stanford. He'd be going out early to start training with the rest of the and already had his dorm assignment. He'd be living with another freshman gymnast, a guy named Mitch from Nebraska whom he'd met at the National's a couple of months before. He wasn't a bad gymnast, but Dick was light years ahead of him and they both knew it. Somehow it didn't cause any problems between them and they got along amazingly well. Neither expected any problems living and training together.

Bonnie had suggested that he might enjoy having a party a few days before he left for the West coast and the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Most of his good friends were still around, baring Phil who was in Europe with his family, and it would give him a nice chance to say goodbye and make the break that he was ready for.

On Saturday night two days before he was supposed to get on the plane headed west, about twenty five of his high school friends showed up for a cookout. Bonnie would be there and they all knew better than to try to bring anything they shouldn't. They were well-behaved kids and Bonnie was happy he'd been able to reconnect with them after most of his drug problems were finally behind him. They'd supported him and if they weren't the kinds of kids than they were, things may not have turned out as well as they seemed to.

The party, well, really more of a low-key get together, went well. Dick was hugged and kissed by the girls and his back was slapped buy the young men. It was a rite of passage for all of them, the first of their crowd leaving to start out on his own and a few of them envied him leaving a month early. Most of his friends would be going on to college and university as well and they knew, as did every group of high school kids the summer before college, that it was just a matter of time before it would be their turn and then things would change.

Two days later, Bonnie drove Dick to the airport, dropping him at the curb as he'd asked, hugged him, kissed him, told him to be careful and to be sure to call every week then drove away, watching him in the rearview as she left to go back to a now too big and too quiet house and glad that she'd be moving next week.

When the plane landed in San Francisco, Jim Barbera met Dick at the baggage claim as they'd arranged. Jim really did like to look after his boys, as he thought of them, feeling paternal towards the kids who were often away from their homes and long time coaches for the first time. This Porter kid—or was it Grayson? He'd have to ask about that—seemed pretty self sufficient compared to some of the others and he was glad to see that. Most of the boys were at a loss as to how to even do their own laundry and to find one who had actually helped support the family, well, it made a nice change from constant hand holding. Unless he missed his guess—which he rarely did—this one would be team captain in a couple of years and should probably plan on a couple of Olympics in his future as well.

He shook Dick's hand, welcomed him back and congratulated him on his success at the Nationals two months before. "I knew you were going to do it—and you were robbed in the all-around. When you compete for us this year, I'll fight for that kind of thing. Taking a tenth off because of a form break on that release? That was politics, pure and simple—but I guess you knew that at the time, right?"

Dick shrugged and smiled, embarrassed. He wasn't used to praise like this and from someone who he actually respected. Sergei wasn't one to say anything and God knew Bruce wouldn't open his mouth for a 'well done'. His real father had been good about that sort of thing and Dick used to love the 'good job, son' he'd get after a clean catch or the 'nice one' he'd hear from Andy—even if the man didn't really know what he was looking at. Mr. Barbera seemed like he'd be alright, though. He really did.

Dick and Mitch, who had beaten him to the dorm by a day, got along easily and there was almost no friction, thank God. They had a lot of the same tastes in music and even had a similar level of tolerance for mess. The place wasn't what you'd call antiseptic, but it wasn't a sty, either. It seemed to reach a median level they were both comfortable with.

They were also both smart and both determined to get both good grades and to excel in the gym—not an easy thing at Stanford. Between classes and their five and six days a week workouts, they didn't have either the time nor the inclination for much socialization and when the inevitable invitations to look over the frats came in, they both ignored them.

Dick was taking a relatively general course load made up of mainly requirements—history, English, math, philosophy. The professors were all good ones and expected the students to show up and do all the work and have it done on time. It wasn't an easy first quarter (Stanford is on a quarter system instead of semesters; fall, winter, spring and summer.), and there were times when he wasn't sure he'd done the right thing in agreeing to this tough a school. The course load was heavy enough and when you added three or four hours a day of hard workout, he was exhausted. Of course, they all were—it seemed to be status quo for all the athletic teams, none of which seemed to have too many dumb jocks on them.

But—Dick was keeping his head above water so far, was making progress in his gymnastics, was making friends on the team and was doing alright with his grades.

One night he was walking back to the dorm from a research trip to the library and it occurred to him, it sort of struck him—he was happy. Well, maybe 'happy' was too big a word, but he was certainly content. God was in his Heaven and all was right with the world.

Things were looking pretty good and when he saw a poster on the bulletin board at the student center advertising Haley's circus doing a three day date in San Francisco a week before Thanksgiving he talked a couple of the guys on the team into giving him a ride into the city.

He asked them—mainly to be polite—if they wanted to see the show and wasn't disappointed when they said they'd rather just hit some bars and get a good dinner before seeing what entertainment they could scare up. They'd pick him up around midnight and if there was a problem they all had each other's cell phone numbers.

Making his way around to the backstage area and having to explain several times to some newbie security guy who he was and why he was there, he knocked on Pop's trailer door.

"Dickie! Get yourself in here, boy! My God, look at you standing there, you must be, what? A six-footer now? You still able to make the tuck for the flips with those long legs, are you?" He was hugging Dick and getting hugged back, hard.

"I'll show you after the performance tonight if you want." He leaned back to look at his surrogate grandfather, not liking what he saw. Pop looked—old. "How are you doing? You alright?"

"You know me, this place keeps me young. You keeping your ears clean at that fancy school of yours? Your grades up where they're supposed to be?" He cleared some clothes off a chair so Dick could sit down, taking the edge of the bed himself. The place looked and smelled exactly like Dick remembered from when he was eight.

"I'm good, you don't have to worry about me, you know that."

"I've been worrying about you since before you were born and I don't see any reason to stop now. You putting in enough practice time for that team you're on, are you?"

"It's good, Pop. I won two events at a meet last week against UCLA and I'm sticking the quad off the high bar just about every time I throw it."

"Like your dad. I know you. Just like I knew you'd end up doing something more than carny work. You were always too smart to stay here. Even if your parents were still flying, you'da been gone when you got old enough, just like you're gone from that nice couple that took you in." He saw the look on Dick's face. "Something go bad there?"

"Andy was killed a couple of years ago in a car wreck. It was kinda hard, y'know? Took me a while to deal with it."

Losing three parents in seven or eight years? Yeah, that could throw you for a loop. "...You okay now?"

"Yeah, I'm good now. I'm happy now."

"That's what I like to hear and Dickie? You know I'm here for you, right? You always know that, don't you?"

The visit went on for a couple of hours then they went across the field to see the second part of the show, the part with the flyers. "They're good, but they're not as good as you and your parents were."

They watched the show, Dick was hugged and exclaimed over by the old timers and introduced to the new acts who were nice enough to say they'd heard of the Flying Grayson and they weren't even lying. The Flying Graysons were legends in their world and they really were honored to meet the survivor. They even promised to follow his meets when they could. He'd be surprised—they had computers now and they could look up results. They'd be looking for him.

Dick and Pop sauntered over to the main gate, the crowds now gone home till next time. Dick's friends were waiting for him.

"You keep in touch, you hear me?"

"I will, Pop—you take care of yourself, alright?" A final hug and he got back into the car. They all had an early workout the next day.

God, he missed this. He missed everything about it; the smells, the crowds, the sounds, the adrenalin rush before you're announced, the applause, even the crappy food. He missed the family, the easy friendship and acceptance and he missed his—home.

And it was gone for him and he knew that. Even if he came back somehow, it wouldn't be the same. His parents wouldn't be there and their trailer was wrecked in a fire five years after another act took it over. It was like when people knock on a door, telling the stranger who answers that they'd grown up in this house and could they look around, but the walls are all painted different colors and the furniture isn't the same and it's no longer yours.

"You grew up in a circus? How cool was that?"

"It was pretty cool, Steve."

"Damn."

Thanksgiving Dick was invited home with Mitch, his father flying down from Nebraska in his Piper to pick up both boys. It turned out Mitch's dad ("Call me George.") was another old gymnast who had passed the love of the sport on to his son. In fact he had met Mitch's mother when they were both at some regional meet about twenty-five years before. Both their kids, Mitch and his younger sister competed and both did reasonably well though neither of them was in Dick's league. What looked like a barn from the outside was actually a pretty well equipped gym and the entire family spent most of Friday out there seeing what the two boys had learned at school—all of them impressed by Dick's overall ability and the quad in particular and George wanting to know when his son was going to nail that—it was a damn fine move and the fact that there were only two people in the world who could do it seemed to cut no ice. "It he can do it, you can do it, now, no excuses—you get your ass to work."

Dick knew what pressure was, but he was glad he'd avoided the parental side of it for the most part—well, mostly, anyway.

The next week, back in Palo Alto the routine of gym, classes and back to the gym continued.

Dick dutifully called Bonnie every week and he was glad to hear that her new job at the high school seemed to be going well. It was more money than she'd been making at the private school and she'd found a condo she told him was a really nice one, well built and solid. A contractor's wife would notice these things. He'd like it when he saw it.

During an afternoon practice about two weeks after the Thanksgiving break, Dick had just finished some pommel work, which he hated, and saw that the vaulting table was almost clear, no line.

Good. He needed to refine his Tsukahara and his Yurchenko had been a little shaky at the last meet. He could usually do them no problem, but lately they'd been giving him a little trouble and it was just one of those things that happened now and then. You learn a skill, master it, do it fine for years and then for some reason it slips for a while. Happens to everyone. He could work through it. He lined up his mark, started his run, hit the spring board at the right angle, pushed off from the table, twisting and spinning in two directions at the same time, his inner gyro working perfectly—straightened out, reached for the ground and stuck, bouncing a few feet forward on the landing. Not good. He walked back up the runway and moved his start mark a few feet. Made the run, the jump, the spring, the push off, spinning and this time no bounce.

Damn, that felt good.

He walked back up the mat and did it again. And again. And again. After the twentieth try he thought he had the Tsuk back. At least he was feeling a lot better about the thing. A few more days and he'd have it nailed again.

Now he'd try working on the Yurchenko.

He found his mark for the run up, hit the springboard at the right angle.

The thing with a vault is that it's so fast there's no time to correct a mistake. A vault only lasts maybe two seconds. There's no real time to change anything once you're airborne, your body moves with muscle memory, practicing a move so many times until it becomes automatic—until it's ingrained in and you almost just go along for the ride.

He hit the vaulting table and felt his hand slip a fraction of an inch when he planted for the push off. Later he wondered about that, why it happened. Maybe he had a little sweat on his hand, maybe he was tired from the practice, and maybe he just screwed it up.

He came off the table committed to the vault, the twists and the landing but the weak push off didn't give him enough flight and he landed too low. His right leg jammed into the mat and they heard the snap across the gym.

The others turned to stare at the sound then moved to him quickly. Jim Barbera ran over, calling 911 on his cell phone as soon as he saw the bones sticking out of Dick's leg and the blood spreading on the mat.

The ambulance arrived inside of five minutes and Dick was vaguely aware of someone saying it would be easier to get the stretcher in through the side door so pull the ambulance around. He was taken to the Stanford University Medical Center. It was the closest.

It took three operations to put his leg back together. The compound fracture was a bad one that had not only taken out both the tibia and the fibula, but had torn ligaments and tendons, as well. There was nerve damage and veins were injured. The cartilage around his knee was torn.

Dick was kept in the hospital for over two weeks due to severe swelling that caused further damage and then he was deemed too fragile to fly back home just yet. He was sent to stay in the Stanford Infirmary and could only get around—when he was allowed out at all, in a wheel chair with his leg and cast elevated.

His professors said he would have to either accept a medical incomplete or take his finals on material he'd missed for three weeks.

He took the incompletes.

He was put on painkillers, despite his telling the doctors he couldn't take drugs—he couldn't risk taking them again, he was a recovering addict. He'd rather gut through the pain.

He made it home for New Year's after Christmas was spent at Jim Barbera's home. The coach's home was a ranch and so had no stairs. It was the easiest place for him to get himself around in his chair or occasionally on crutches. Kind though it was of the Jim to offer the use of the guest room, but they both knew it wasn't where either of them wanted him to be. He was antsy and, though he tried hard to be polite, the fact was that he was angry and scared.

Just before New Year's and almost a month after the accident, Dick was finally allowed to board a plane east. He was given three seats together and his leg was kept elevated the entire flight. Bonnie picked him up in Sergei's van, borrowed for the occasion, so he could stretch out.

Because of the full flight of stairs in Bonnie's new condo—which Dick agreed was very nice—he was set up in the living room, sleeping on an inflatable mattress bought for his use. A couple of his old friends were around for the tail end of Christmas break and they stopped by, bringing Chinese food and beer one evening. It was a nice break and Dick was sorry when the two of them had to go back to their respective schools a few days later. Christian and Sarah were solid now and Dick didn't mind seeing them hanging on each other. Christian told him, when Sarah was in the bathroom, that he was going to ask her to marry him on Valentine's Day and would Dick be his best man?

Sure, he'd be glad to. Hey, why not?

Within a week everyone else had also left and Dick had little to do with his time besides the daily PT, watching movies or reading.

Another week went by with Dick making trips to orthopedists and physical therapists. They all told him how lucky he was to have the medical attention he did. His leg was healing incredibly quickly considering the extent of the damage and he should be able to graduate to a walking cast in another six weeks or so. He was doing very well.

One day he called Bruce, getting Alfred. "Hey Alf, I'm back for a while and I was wondering if maybe we could pick up some of the things we were doing together before I left. Do you think he'd be open to that?"

"I really can't speak for the master, you know better than that, young man. I shall speak to him with your suggestion when he returns, if you wish."

"He's away? When do you think he'll be back?"

"Mister Wayne is expected back from Asia in three weeks."

"...Yeah, okay. Would you tell him I called?"

"Of course. Is there anything else?"

"No, that was it."

"Good day."

One afternoon at the end of January Jim Barbera called.

"Dick? How are you doing? How's the leg coming?"

"It's coming. Slow, you know. How are things out there?"

"Mark finally landed the triple last week and Mitch is starting to stick the Tsuk after you gave him those pointers."

"Great."

"...Dick, have you heard if you'll be able to get back to school this quarter?"

The point of the call. Of course. "It doesn't look like it, no. I just started PT five times a week and I don't know how long that's going to run. It's going to be a while."

There was an awkward pause. "Look, son. I'm going to have to release your scholarship money to other students. It's against the school rules to let you keep an athletic scholarship if you're unable to compete for the foreseeable future. I hate to do this—you know that, but I simply have no choice."

"Well, could I coach or something? I've been coaching since I was like fifteen."

"I wish you could, but it just doesn't work that way. Look, you get that leg all fixed up good as new and you come back—you know you're the best thing we had on the team. Hell, I had you earmarked for team captain by the time you were a junior. You can still do it, you just have to work."

Shit.

Fuck.

"Yeah, sure. I'll keep you up on how I'm doing, alright?"

"Absolutely. I'll call you, and Dick? The rest of the boys all want me to tell you they're thinking about you. They're dedicating the season to you—did you know that?"

"I—no. I hadn't heard. Tell them thanks for me."

"You bet. Get better now, okay?"

"Yeah, Mr. Barbera. Thanks. I'll see you around."

Yeah, sure. So much for that.

Damn, his leg was aching today.

He picked up the phone again, getting an answering machine. "Hi, you reached Donna. Sorry I can't come to the phone, but I'm either washing my hair or will probably be back in a while. Leave a message, okay?" He hung up at the beep.

He checked the clock; he wasn't supposed to have another pain pill for two hours. Shit. It was hurting like a bitch—maybe it he took half a dosage it would help. It was worth the try, anyway. That's what he'd do. It had to take the edge off, even if it didn't kill the pain completely. Maneuvering his crutches to get himself into the kitchen, he took one of the small white pills, washing it down with a glass of tap water.

It should start helping in a little while and he'd still be able to take his regular dosage with dinner.

An hour later Bonnie called.

"Honey? I'm sorry, but I have to stay late this afternoon. I've been drafted to help with the senior class play and they're looking at scripts this afternoon—we have to make a decision today and it's between 'Diary of a Mad Housewife', 'Wit', and 'The Vagina Monologues'. This could take a while so I'll stop for food on the way back—any preferences?"

"No, anything you want is good."

"Dick, sweetie, are you alright? Is your leg hurting you?"

"No, I'm fine. I was just going to take a nap."

"Well, that sounds like a good idea, why don't you do that? I'll be home as soon as I can."

Great.

Shit.

He put a DVD in—'Twenty-eight Days', talk about your dumb movie. Halfway through it he heard the doorbell.

"Come in." He yelled. He had to. He wasn't about to haul himself up just to answer the stupid door.

The door opened and closed with a cold draft. "Who's there?"

Alex, one of his old high school friends walked into the living room. "Shit, man, I'd heard you really racked yourself up—that looks like it sucks."

"Yeah, well, pretty much, yeah it does. So get yourself a beer or something then sit down, what are you doing—you in school or working?"

Alex answered from the kitchen. "Hanging, working over at K-mart."

"K-mart? Christ, Alex, talk about sucking."

He sat on the end of the couch, beer in hand and gave the second one he was carrying to Dick. "Yeah, pretty much. So what's the deal? You going back to school when that heals?"

"...I doubt it. It's pretty much fucked as far as anything high level goes; I'll be able to walk, maybe with a limp, but it's screwed for much more than that. No athletics, no athletic scholarship and that hot shit trust fund from my parents? They invested in Enron. Enough said there. No money, no school."

"What about getting a regular scholarship or a loan or something? You're still smart."

"Fuck it."

"Sucks, man." He regarded Dick for a long moment. "Your mom here?"

"She'll be home in a couple of hours, I guess. Why? You have ideas?"

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Alex pulled out the vial, tapped a few lines on a piece of paper and smiled at Dick.

Dick gave him a half smile in return and reached for the small straw Alex handed him. "You have a lot of that?"

"Yep."

"Good."

The End

10/27/04

15


	15. In Another Land epilogue

Title: In Another Land Epilogue

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

**In Another Land**

Epilogue 

Five Years Later 

"Yes, Oracle out."

"Did you get that information I asked you for this morning?"

"It's printing out now. Most of it was just a cross reference and the rest was available through Interpol and Oracle."

"I'll see you back here tomorrow then." Batman left through the main entrance, Batmobile roaring loudly, as it tended to do. It always gave Dick a headache and the exhaust usually made him nauseous, but he was pretty much used to it by now.

The last couple of years—the last four years, really, had been pretty good. Maybe not that he'd hoped for, but then considering the alternative, they weren't too bad. For starters, he wasn't dead. For another thing, he was working with Bruce—Batman, whatever you wanted to call him and for another he was starting to believe that he was making a difference, indirectly though it might be.

The day Alex had come over, the day he'd started snorting coke again was probably the lowest point of his life and that was saying something when you thought about all the crap he'd been through. He'd lost school, he'd lost his girlfriend, he'd lost gymnastics and he didn't have a clue about what he was going to do next. He'd gotten pretty deeply back into the coke for a couple of months before Bruce showed up on his doorstep one night, took him out for a walk—or a limp as he thought of it—and laid some cards on the table.

He could keep doing what he was doing and probably end up dead or in jail or both.

He could go back to rehab and try to get his shit back together and go back to school on a scholarship and try to live a nice normal life.

He could get clean and get back in with Bruce and learn things that would help people make some serious inroads against some pretty serious bad guys.

Or he could get clean and just screw around and waste whatever time he had—which, from the looks of how he was going, wouldn't e too long.

Those were his choices and he didn't have much time to dither around with them. Make up his mind.

So, not being an idiot, he had opted for clean, school and teaming with Bruce/Batman when he got his act together. Hazelton had worked before for him, at least for a while, and he contacted them again. This time Bruce agreed to foot the bill as a necessary preliminary step in his training. Three months later Dick was back and newly clean again.

This time it would work.

Alex declined the offer of rehab and OD'd two years later.

Dick had contacted Stanford and requested that whatever transcripts he had accumulated be sent to Gotham U where he'd applied for entrance in the next freshman class. Sure, Bruce had called the Dean of Students to grease the transfer wheels, but it was made clear to Dick that, Bruce Wayne or no Bruce Wayne, he was on his own once he stepped into the class rooms. He'd be marked on his work, not his circle of friends.

Four years later Richard John Grayson Porter graduated Magna Cum Laude with a major in Police Science and a minor in psychology. He was accepted for postgraduate work at both Boston University and Villanova, accepted BU, but opted to defer enrollment for a year. There were still too many things he wanted to get settled before he made another major commitment.

Dick had spent those four years training with Bruce in whatever spare time he had. By the time he had his degree, he was master of most of the major forensic techniques in common practice and a few that weren't so common. He was almost Oracle's equal in reference work and he was gaining a reputation as the one to call if one of the superhero communities needed to discuss something with the Bat. Dick was approachable whereas the Bat, well...

And he became close with the Titans, as well. He and Donna had begun dating a year after he started at Gotham U and things were moving along there. They hadn't discussed marriage, although both of them had thought about it. They were starting to look for a place together and things were good between them, though he had doubts that she wouldn't get bored with him eventually. After all, he was just a normal man, he wasn't like the others. She denied it, hurt he would suggest such a thing, but he just believed what he would, kept it mostly to himself and was happy to take his happiness while it lasted. He'd also become friends with the three young men, with Garth and Wally becoming his new best friends. He and Roy still rubbed one another raw—too much in common, perhaps, but it wasn't anything they couldn't handle.

Bonnie met a man who lived in her condo building and they were married in Dick's junior year. She was happy again and Dick was happy for her. He didn't become close to the man who would nominally be his third or fourth father, but it didn't matter to any of them. They were polite and there was no friction and that was enough for everyone involved.

His gymnastics career ended with the broken leg. He had a permanent limp and while it wasn't severe, it was there. He still coached at Sergei's gym when he could and with his knowledge of the sport, his looks and his articulation, he'd been approached to do commentary for the TV sports shows but had turned the offers down. He simply wasn't interested. In fact he was dealing with a good case of depression due to the loss of the sport he'd both loved and excelled at, though he was getting help for that and starting to find other things that mattered to him and which gave him fulfillment. It still hurt to see his old teammates compete at the Olympics, though and he suspected he'd never completely come to terms with it. It was just too painful and was something else he didn't think about when he could avoid it.

His injury also ended any hope or fantasy he might have about working the rooftops with Bruce or the Titans and that was a hard pill to swallow for a long time—it still was, but it was a fact he was learning to accept, if not always as gracefully as he would have liked. It wasn't as though he had a choice, though, so he sucked it up as much as he could and tried to move on.

But when the call came in asking if he would possibly consider performing at a benefit to raise money for the retirement home Pop Haley was now living in down in Sarasota, there was no way he could turn it down.

Dick spoke to Sergei, explaining the situation, knowing there was no way on earth he'd be able to get back in full form in a six weeks, but determined to do what he could. Sergei would help get him back in shape, but he had another idea for the trap work.

Hitting Bruce's gym every day for at least two hours, he installed a pair of trapezes and convinced Bruce to help him out. Dick was astounded when the boss agreed, but then they had become, well, friends and Bruce didn't seem to have too many of those. There were even times when they'd sit around after a training session or maybe on a Sunday afternoon and just talk, exchange ideas, tell one another their thoughts and hopes. Once they even watched a movie together, something Bruce confided he'd only done maybe three times in his life with another person. It was nice and they both looked forward to those times and Dick would notice Alfred smiling whenever it happened.

One day the old man stopped Dick as he was leaving through the kitchen. "You know, I've been meaning to say something for some time now. You've made a difference in the Master. Your being here and working closely with him, I believe he needed that."

"It's not..."

"Yes, young man, it is. He isn't a very—open person, as you've no doubt found out, but he opens to you and that's quite an accomplishment. I know he's grateful to you for that, as am I. You've...helped."

Dick was surprised and unbelieving. "But I can't do the things he wanted me to when we first started talking about my working with him. My leg..."

"Yes, that was unfortunate, but it's just a leg, you see. What matters is that you stayed the course once you regained your path.

"He could have found someone else who..."

"No, in fact he couldn't. He found you; Richard and you are who he was looking for. Thank you."

"He's helped me, too."

"Of course he has. That's what you do for friends, isn't it?"

In two weeks he could turn a single with a catch again. In a month he was up to the double, a week later he had the triple and most people would have been happy with that after a five year lay off.

Dick was determined to throw the quad.

He worked the entire week he had left solid on that one move, working until his hands were bloody and his arms were exhausted.

It eluded him.

"Dick, you're not eight years old anymore, you're not even eighteen. Do the triple. You know you can make that and there's no point in getting hurt. C'mon, it's just a benefit, lighten up about it."

"I can't believe that you're telling me to quit."

"I'm not. I'm telling you that you've done enough to more than satisfy whatever you're trying to prove."

"Try it again, Bruce."

They kept working.

Bruce offered him one of the Wayne Enterprises jets down to Florida, but he preferred to take a commercial flight. Somehow arriving any other way—other than maybe driving, would have seemed pretentious. The first thing he did when he landed and rented a car was to drive over to the home to see Pop.

Dick went to the assisted living apartment Pop had been in last year to have a stranger answer the door and direct him to the information desk in another building. Asking there, he was directed to a room at the end of a long hospital smelling corridor and stood in the open door. A shrunken figure was in the bed, covered up to his waist with a sheet and the TV tuned to some talk show.

God, when did he get this old?

"Hey, Pop."

"Who's that? You have my lunch yet? I asked for it an hour ago...Dickie? Dickie, that's you? What the blue blazes are you doing here?"

"I've got a show tonight, you going to be there?"

"They told me about it, but no. I've seen circus acts before—they got you to come all the way down here from Gotham for this thing?"

"I'm coming out of retirement for this—one night only, ladies and gentlemen, performing death defying acts for your enjoyment."

"You have something in that head of yours, Dickie, I know you too well. What have you got planned?" He reached for his glass of water, Dick handed it to him.

"Come to the show tonight and see."

Pop smiled. "You always were a pushy kind of kid."

Dick knew that he was the featured performer and scheduled for the end of the two-hour show. It was the position he was used to, the headline spot. It still felt right.

He'd been in contact with the new flying troop working with Haley and they'd discussed how they'd fit his moves into their routine. They had one three hour practice that afternoon and it had gone pretty well after a short adjustment period of getting tuned into each other's rhythms. They were all good and they were all professionals. They'd do this no problem.

During the first act of the show and through the bulk of the second, Dick stayed calmly backstage, keeping his muscles warm, stretching, talking to the others. It was like old times, he was home again and he felt good. No one was scoring him, no one was judging other than himself. He was born for this, he could do this. They got the warning; five minutes.

Lined up by the entrance, they were introduced, The Flying Stanton's with their special guest, Rickard Grayson of the Flying Graysons. They all walked into the spotlights, removed their capes, and climbed the ladders up fifty feet to the tiny platforms while the music built the suspense. The Stanton's began their regular routine, back and forth, cross overs, exchanges, flips, turns. It was, to Dick's eyes, basic stuff and fairly pedestrian; moves he'd done when he was seven years old and younger. The Stanton's finished their routine, the main catcher stayed on the bar and Dick stepped up for his turn. This was why he was here.

"Ladies and Gentlemen and children of all ages, for your enjoyment Richard Grayson will now attempt the most difficult feat ever performed on the trapeze, the quadruple tuck, four complete revolutions in the air—a feat so dangerous that he is the only person in the world currently attempting this move and he will do so without the net. Silence, please." The safety net dropped to the ground on cue.

Dick took hold of the bar, jumped up and began the swings that would give him the momentum, back and forth, the drums beating out the tension. Back and forth, higher, higher, a final swing, release...the turns too fast to count the slap of hands on hands and he was hanging securely from the catcher. His feet found the platform again, arm raised. Applause.

It was just the way it used to be.

No, it was almost the way it used to be.

Back on the ground, the show over after the bows, he found the box seat Pop had watched the show from, front and center. "You did it, Dickie, just like you used to, you did it."

"I thought you'd like to see it again, Pop." They talked for just a few minutes before the nurses wheeled him out to the van to take him back to the retirement home, Dick promising he'd call and visit when he could. When the van left he walked back into the arena, headed to the dressing rooms to shower and change. He'd sleep in a nearby motel and leave in the morning.

"You made an old man happy." Bruce was standing by the door.

"You saw that? Why did you...?"

Bruce went over to where Dick was stopped. "I was curious to see if you'd be able to do it. I had a feeling you'd pull it off."

"You flew fifteen hundred miles to see a two second trick? But...?"

"You know, you've been in and out of my life since you were eight years old, I'm not a sentimental man, but I've thought of you all these years as a, sort of almost a son. Well, in an absentee father kind of way. I watched everything you went through—your parent's deaths, your adoption, your start in gymnastics, Andy's death, your difficulties with that, the drugs, and your success in your sport, your leg. You were so tough and so smart. You took everything and finally managed to beat it all. I wanted to see you graduate tonight. I, I'm proud of you."

Dick almost smiled. He'd never felt like he had a handle on Bruce before. Oh, he'd wondered about him a lot, tried to figure him out and occasionally even thought that maybe he had it, but he was always wrong. Now, maybe, he got the man. At least as well as anyone could.

"Well, all this time, I never thought of you as a father, you know; a guardian, a mentor, an intruder in my life and a meddler, but you were never a father. When you threw me out after my parents died, I figured you just couldn't be bothered, but you kept showing up—yeah I noticed all the things you did for us over the years. It wasn't hard to trace the stuff you did. You really pissed me off a lot over the years with all that. I half expected you to marry Bonnie to help her out and keep an eye on me. It was like I couldn't cough with out you knowing about it."

Bruce nodded, "So, what about now?"

Dick took his time answering. "Now I don't need a father any more and I don't think you really need a son, either. I doubt if you ever really did."

"I see." Bruce seemed disappointed.

"But we are friends. Is that alright with you? We can be friends."

He brightened. "Friends. Yes. I like us as friends."

Dick smiled, his real smile, the warm one. "Friends."

"And partners."

10/27/04

8


End file.
